VIKTOR'S POV
The vodka bottle shattered against the wall of my office, exploding in a spray of glass and alcohol that rained down on the expensive Persian rug.
It didn't help.
Nothing helped.
Three weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours since Isabella Volkov walked out of my life, and I still couldn't breathe without feeling like someone had their fist wrapped around my lungs.
I poured another glass from the backup bottle I kept in my desk drawer. My hands are steady despite the amount of alcohol already coursing through my system. Years of practice had taught me how to function while drunk...a useful skill in my line of work.
A useless skill when it came to forgetting that storm-gray eyes and the sound of her crying.
"I hope your fear keeps you warm at night, Viktor Ko
