The late afternoon sun hung low over Moscow, casting a golden sheen on the gray stone façade of the medical university. Angelina Volkov strode out of the lecture hall, her blonde hair catching the light like a halo, though her mood was anything but angelic. Her curves, hugged by a tight leather jacket and jeans that left little to the imagination, turned heads as she moved with purpose, her stiletto boots clicking against the pavement. At 22, she was a force—sharp-tongued, ambitious, and utterly fed up with scraping by on ramen and borrowed textbooks. Her student loans loomed like a guillotine, and today’s lecture on infectious diseases had been the final straw in a long week of misery.
“Angelina, hey, wait up!” a voice called, thick with an accent that grated on her nerves before she even turned around. She sighed, already knowing who it was.
Jamshut. Of course. The 18-year-old Azerbaijani kid who thought he was God’s gift to women—and Moscow—thanks to the dirty money that practically oozed from his pores. He jogged up to her, his gold chain bouncing against a half-unbuttoned silk shirt, his dark eyes glinting with mischief. He was shorter than her by a few inches, but his confidence filled the space like a storm cloud. His cologne hit her first, a musky assault that screamed ‘new money and no taste.’
“Jamshut, I’m not in the mood for your bullshit today,” Angelina snapped, crossing her arms, which only accentuated the swell of her chest. She caught his gaze flicker there and smirked, knowing exactly how to play him. “Eyes up, kid. I’m not your personal peep show.”
He grinned, unabashed, stepping closer than any sane person would dare. “Come on, krasavitsa, don’t be so cold. I’m just tryna warm you up. Long day, yeah? You look like you need a break. My place, Moscow City. View so good, you’ll forget all about bacteria or whatever you nerds study.”
Angelina rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of curiosity beneath her irritation. Moscow City—those gleaming towers of obscene wealth—were a world away from her cramped dorm room. Still, she wasn’t about to let this little punk think he had the upper hand. “Oh, please. I’ve seen better views from the back of a bus. And I’m not some cheap date you can buy with a flashy address.”
Jamshut’s grin widened, and before she could step back, his hand was on her hip, his fingers daring to squeeze. Right there, in broad daylight, outside the damn university. “Not cheap, no. But everyone’s got a price, Angelina. Name yours. I got cash, cars, whatever you want. Let me spoil you.”
Her first instinct was to slap him into next week, but the weight of her empty wallet pressed harder than his hand. She grabbed his wrist, twisting it just enough to make him wince, her green eyes blazing. “Touch me again without permission, and I’ll break more than your ego. But,” she added, her voice dropping to a dangerous purr as she leaned in, her lips inches from his ear, “I’m listening. Keep talking, pretty boy. What’s in it for me?”
Jamshut laughed, a low, throaty sound, clearly thrilled by her fire. “That’s my girl. Come with me. I got a ride waiting. You’ll see what I mean. Anything you want, I make it happen.”
She released his wrist, stepping back to appraise him like a predator sizing up prey. “Fine. But let’s get one thing straight—I’m not your girl. I’m the one calling the shots. You’re just the bank. Got it?”
“Whatever you say, boss lady,” he replied, throwing up his hands in mock surrender, though his smirk said he was far from tamed. He gestured toward a sleek black BMW parked illegally near the curb, its chrome rims gleaming like a peacock’s tail. “After you.”
Angelina slid into the passenger seat, the leather cool against her thighs, the scent of money and arrogance thick in the air. Jamshut hopped in beside her, revving the engine with a boyish grin as if the sound alone could impress her. She arched a brow, unimpressed. “What, no driver? I thought rich boys didn’t lift a finger.”
He chuckled, pulling into traffic with reckless ease, one hand on the wheel, the other already creeping toward her knee. “Nah, I like to drive. Keeps me in control. But don’t worry, I got other ways to keep my hands busy.”
She caught his wrist again, this time pinning it to the gearshift with a grip that could crush. “Eyes on the road, hotshot. You crash this toy, and I’ll make sure you regret it long before the cops show up.” But there was a glint in her eye, a calculated tease, as she shifted in her seat, letting her jacket fall open just enough to give him a glimpse of the lace beneath her top. “Besides, if you’re good, I might let you touch. Later. If you earn it.”
Jamshut’s laugh was pure delight, his gaze darting between her and the chaotic Moscow streets. “Damn, girl, you’re gonna kill me before we even get there. You play hard, huh? I like that. Bet you’re worth every ruble.”
“More than you can afford, trust me,” she shot back, her tone dripping with disdain, though her lips curled into a wicked smile. She leaned closer, her breath hot against his neck as she murmured, “But let’s see how deep those pockets are. Tell me, Jamshut, what’s a night with me worth to you? And don’t lowball. I don’t do discounts.”
He groaned, visibly struggling to keep his focus on the road as her words—and proximity—worked their magic. “Name a number, Angelina. I’ll double it. Triple it. You got me hooked already.”
She laughed, a sharp, commanding sound that filled the car. “Oh, honey, numbers are just the start. You want me? You’re gonna work for it. Every. Single. Second.” Her hand slid up his arm, nails grazing just enough to make him shiver, before she pulled back entirely, leaving him wanting. “Drive faster. I don’t have all day to play with children.”
Jamshut floored it, the car weaving through traffic as the city blurred past, towers of glass and steel rising like promises of sin. Angelina settled back in her seat, her mind racing as fast as the BMW. She wasn’t sold yet—not on him, not on this game—but the thrill of control, the lure of escape from her broke-ass reality, was a drug she couldn’t quite resist. Not yet.
“Almost there,” Jamshut muttered, his voice thick with anticipation. “You’re gonna love this, I swear.”
“I don’t love anything,” she replied coolly, fixing him with a stare that could melt steel. “But I’ll let you try to change my mind. Don’t screw it up.”
The car roared on, the tension between them a live wire, sparking with every word, every glance, every unspoken dare. Angelina knew she was playing with fire, but damn if she didn’t intend to be the one holding the match.
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