The sun was dipping below the horizon in Mamaia, painting the Black Sea in shades of gold and violet. On the terrace of a private villa, the air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne, roasted meats, and the unmistakable, rhythmic trill of a clarinet.
Andrei sat at the head of the table, his silk shirt unbuttoned halfway. He had everything—the cars, the influence, the respect. But as the speakers began to play the familiar opening chords of his gaze drifted to Elena, who was standing by the balcony railing, looking out at the waves. The sun was dipping below the horizon in
"Then ask me for a walk," he said quietly. "Just a walk on the sand. No bodyguards, no cameras. Just us." and the unmistakable