Karina Romanov knew exactly what she wanted. And she always got it.
A degree with honors, fluency in three foreign languages, a top-tier position at the pharmaceutical giant "Pharma R." Her name carried weight in the industry, as recognizable and trusted as an over-the-counter drug. Potent. Minimal side effects.
On the outside, she was perfection: a flawless figure, impeccable posture, a razor-sharp mind. Her restrained smile could soothe or destroy in equal measure.
But no one suspected the much darker truth hidden behind that polished facade.
Her father—the only person she could truly be herself with—had died in a horrific car crash.
Officially, it was ruled an accident. For Karina, it was the beginning of her unraveling.
She didn’t believe in coincidences. And she certainly didn’t believe in her mother’s tears.
Almost immediately after the funeral, Karina stepped into his office—not as a daughter, but as his successor.
Stern, guarded, silent. With a heart that had ordered itself not to feel.
The air smelled of medicine, office paper, and freshly cut roses—just as it always did when Karina entered the main office of "Pharma R," the company her father had led just a year ago. His favorite scent, a cologne with hints of vetiver, had long since faded, but the ghost of Kirill Romanov lingered in every corner. Especially in the silence that greeted her at the door.
A car crash. A late-night call. A broken connection. Then, the hollow "I’m sorry" and the cold formality of a hospital report.
She didn’t believe in accidents.
Karina had no time for grief. Within weeks of the funeral, she was already sitting in his chair—with a face that knew no tears and a heart that forbade itself to feel. Her father had left her more than a last name and a family business; he’d left her a debt of responsibility she woke up to every morning.
What irritated her most was that her mother hadn’t lost her appetite, even on the day of the funeral. Elegant, with a delicate Hermès scarf draped around her neck, she played the role of the grieving widow with theatrical precision. But Karina saw it—Martha Sergeevna’s eyes weren’t crying. They were... waiting.
“Sweetheart, you can’t be alone forever,” her mother repeated almost daily. “Business is fine, but it won’t hold you at night.”
“I’d rather business not betray me during the day,” Karina shot back sharply.
Now, everything in her life was about control. She allowed herself no weaknesses. Men—only fleetingly. Friends—barely any. Emotions—none. She had frozen herself in time, like the experimental drugs in their first phase of testing, locked away in the lab on the third floor.
But what seems stable is often an illusion. Because it’s precisely when everything appears under control that life prepares a new, invisible virus. One that can’t be cured with pills. One that eats away from the inside. And it has only one name—him.