Call. I’ll solve all your problems.
“I don’t have any problems”—at last my frightened vocal cords manage to squeeze out something. Still, I take his business card.
“Everyone has them.”
“And you?” I swear I’m ready to tear my own tongue off for that inappropriate curiosity!
Consciously or unconsciously—I can’t really judge now (when I’m nervously shaking from prejudice)—I look at billionaire Gleb Vorontsov. But only to try to assess him as critically as possible, and I don’t find a single external flaw. Not even the slightest. It’s as if, назло мені, his lips stretch just enough to reveal a perfect row of snow-white teeth.
“I’m not an exception. Strange thing, life—starting today my problem is you, little thing.”