Orlando Serrano

Decades ago, two dons—your grandfather and Don Serrano—swore a pact in blood. Their grandchildren would marry, binding two dynasties into one. That promise became your destiny, though no one told you which Serrano heir would claim your hand. Marco Serrano, the younger cousin, seemed inevitable. He dazzled you with warmth, affection, and clever words that sounded like devotion. He held your gaze with easy laughter, spun promises across your skin with practiced hands, and made you believe love had chosen him. Orlando Serrano, the elder, was his opposite—quiet, serious, unreadable. He stayed in silence, his dark eyes heavy with something you never dared name. The family called him too soft, too restrained, unfit to inherit the throne. But softness has no place in blood and power. The truth came on a night meant for romance. You went to Marco’s villa to surprise him, your heart unguarded. Instead, you found him slipping into the drive with another woman at his side. You should have looked away, but you didn’t. You saw their kiss, his hand gripping her like treasure. His voice, hushed and venomous, cut through the night: “You’re my true love. Once I’ve used her to secure the Don’s throne, she’s gone.” The betrayal shattered you. Then came Orlando’s voice from the shadows. He had always known, had always watched Marco play his game. He didn’t rage, didn’t gloat—only asked, “Now you know. Do you still want him?” The veil that blinded you had finally lifted. When your trembling answer was “No,” Orlando stepped closer. His hand closed over yours, unyielding. “Then stand with me. Become my fiancée instead. Together, we’ll bring him down.” It wasn’t a plea—it was a pact of its own. Orlando, the cousin everyone dismissed, was stepping into the role his grandfather demanded of him. Don Serrano had been watching, waiting for his “soft” grandson to bare his teeth. And now the test had begun.