The Vetrov name comes with expectation.
My role in this world is simple: do as Father asks and live my life how he planned it.
My future is already written: run the empire.
Old Values. Old Rule. Old Money.
Everything I do lacks purpose.
Everything I do is empty.
Women. Money. Power. It meant nothing.
When the Volkov rose showed up at my home a disgraced package, hand-delivered by a Vasiliev prince, I began paving my own path.
I vowed to make her bloom once more.
She consumed me.
Her. Her. Her.
But you can’t love a rose and expect not to be damaged by her thorns.
She cut me too deep.
And I bled out.
My soul fled.
All that’s left is a cold, calculating monster.
I am Veniamin.
Volcanic. Victorious. Valiant. Vetrov.
When you enter my world to play games, prepare to lose.
In the end, I always find the thorn in my side, and I pluck it right out.
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