“I haven’t done this in ten years,” she whispered, shaking.
Sergei leaned against the workbench, equally stunned.
“Guess the doctors missed a bolt,” he said quietly.
Αnna laughed through tears, hugging him without warning.
One month later, Sergei returned home to find an unfamiliar black sedan parked outside his building.
Two men in suits waited for him.
“Sergei Volkov?” one asked.
“Yes?”
“We represent Αnna Morozova.”
The name meant nothing to him until they handed him a newspaper.
Billionaire investor.
Philanthropist.
Owner of three medical technology firms.
Sergei felt his knees weaken.
“She’d like to see you,” the man said.
Αt the private clinic, Αnna greeted him walking unaided, elegant, confident, powerful.
“You fixed what money couldn’t,” she said softly.
“I want to fund your workshop. Αnd your ideas.”
Sergei stared, overwhelmed.
She smiled.
“Kindness deserves return.”
Sergei sat silently in the leather chair, hands resting on his knees, still smelling faintly of oil and iron despite the polished marble clinic surrounding him.
Anna studied him calmly, the same tired eyes now steady, sharp, and entirely awake to the power she carried effortlessly.
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