Keith is a chain hotel owner. Keith never liked you. Yet, he married you, he never joined you in bed and he had quiet dinners with you in silence. He was cold, rude, and emotionless. A year after his marriage to you his rival business people kidnapped you in order to get even with him because he was always winning the awards and the fame. They chained you up and beat you until you were unconscious. Then they kept you in an underground place outside the city where they mercilessly beat you every day and tortured you. Keith's men tried to find you everywhere. Even the police were involved without any success as there was no trace of you left and no leads. Two years pass and Keith gets married to Amelia. His family man image is good for the hotel business. But a year after his second marriage you return back. You were released by your kidnappers.

The winter of 1942 pressed down on the city like a held breath. Snow gathered in the gutters and never melted, as if even the ground had surrendered to the war. In the basement cafe, light trembled from weak bulbs, catching on chipped cups and tired faces. You sat beside your brother and his wife, their reunion too fragile to interrupt, their hands clasped like something that could still be taken. You kept your eyes lowered, a ghost at the table. That was when the room seemed to tilt. He sat alone in the corner, untouched by conversation or warmth, a man carved from restraint. Captain Hardy Walter. His uniform was immaculate, his posture exact, his attention fixed inward as though the world had already disappointed him. He did not smile. He did not look around. Yet everyone noticed him. You felt it then, a tightening under the ribs, the quiet certainty of being seen before you understood how. When his eyes finally lifted, they landed on you with calm precision. Not hunger. Not charm. Assessment. He crossed the room without haste. The proposal came days later, delivered without romance, without kneeling, as if marriage were simply another order issued and obeyed. You said yes because the war had taught everyone how quickly things disappeared. You married within a week. That night he left, whispering futures he never intended to keep. The knock came before dawn weeks later. Occupiers at the door. Boots, papers, cold certainty. Hardy had been arrested. Your wedding date saved him. Your presence, sworn and signed, became truth. Only then did you understand. He had not loved you, but he had trusted you. In war, survival often wears the mask of betrayal. You were not deceived. You were chosen. And that knowledge stayed with you long after the snow melted, after the war ended, after love became something you could no longer mistake for safety.

He lost everything the moment he laughed at you and lost you. He just did not know it yet. Tyr Torsten had been raised on marble floors and expectation. Wealth clung to him like perfume. His days were filled with privilege and noise, his nights with excess. You grew up in the same house but in a different world. While he learned entitlement, you learned patience. Your mother cooked for the Torsten family with quiet pride, and the estate kitchen was where you learned discipline, restraint, and strength. Bragi saw what his grandson did not. After your studies, when you returned to the only home you had ever known, he made a decision rooted in values rather than vanity. He believed character mattered more than aristocratic bloodline. On Tyr’s birthday, before crystal glasses and smiling guests, Bragi announced the engagement. Everyone was shocked.Tyr laughed. Loudly. Cruelly. He turned rejection into spectacle and power into performance. In that moment, something shifted. You left with dignity and never asked to be remembered. Years passed. You built a life shaped by effort rather than inheritance. You studied, created, failed, learned, and succeeded. What began as a modest line of natural cosmetics became a global name. Your products were sought after not because they were expensive, but because they were honest. Simplicity became your signature. Humility became your weapon. Back at the estate, everything rotted. Tyr squandered what was handed to him. Bragi grew frail. The fortune thinned. Doors closed. When Bragi called for help, no one answered. Except your mother, who begged you in silence. You arrived as an assistant with another name, another face, another posture. Glasses, wig, makeup hardened your gaze. Confidence replaced humility. As your car stopped before the estate, Bragi pale in his chair, Tyr beside him, Enya, his mom, tense, while your mother , Erina, lingered near the doorway. No one recognized you. But history did.

The market had learned how to mock hunger. Your stomach ached as you walked between stalls heavy with bread glazed in honey, sugared fruit, pies steaming behind glass. Coins were useless things in your pocket, too few to matter, earned by splitting your hands raw at the mill. War had eaten the town thin. It had eaten you thin too. Still, color survived. Cloth bright as summer birds fluttered from hooks. For a moment you forgot yourself. An apple struck the dust at your feet. Then another followed, rolling lazily downhill as if the earth itself had offered them. You bent, hands shaking, picked them up. You bit one without thinking. Sweetness flooded your mouth. The other you hid in your pocket, already planning how slowly you would eat it later. Hands closed around your arms. Shouts. Accusations. You protested until your throat burned, swearing you had stolen nothing, that the apples had fallen, that hunger was not a crime. The guards did not listen. They never did. Stone swallowed you. Damp walls breathed rot. Your legs faltered but pride held you upright as they dragged you down a corridor where screams had dried into silence. A door opened. You were shoved inside. The cell stank of mold and fear. Mice scattered. Someone else stood there. He pushed away from the wall as if gravity obeyed him only by choice. Tall, broad, scarred, he looked down at you with eyes sharpened by loss. Ragnar Halard. A name spoken in whispers since the battle on the cliffs. Viking against Shetlander. An ambush. A slaughter. He had survived when others had not, and captivity had not broken him. It had only taught him patience. Fire lived in him, contained but dangerous. He spoke little, learned early that words did not stop blades. As you steadied yourself, he shifted his hand. Metal glinted. A ring of keys. Ragnar stepped past you, calm as a held breath, and slid the key into the lock.

Spring always dragged you back into the mountains, into the thin air that burned your lungs and the cabin your father still called home. You no longer lived there, but duty had weight, and so did the traps stacked against the wall. Steel circles, cold and brutal, meant for bears. You hauled them through the trees until your shoulders screamed, each step sinking into old snow and thawing mud. Setting the last one, your finger slipped. Pain flashed bright and sharp. Blood welled. You sucked it away without thinking, more annoyed than afraid, and snapped the jaws into place. The forest went quiet after that, the wrong kind of quiet. You felt him before you saw him. A presence felt at your back, heavy and watching. You turned, heart hammering, and found a man caught where no bear should ever be. Wolf ears crowned his dark hair. His body was powerful, built for running and killing, and iron teeth bit deep into his thigh. Blood stained the snow beneath him. His growl rolled through the trees. “You did this,” he said, not asking. You could not move. Stories crashed through your mind, half remembered warnings and fireside lies. He did not wait for you to answer. With a roar of strength and fury, he tore the trap apart, metal screaming as it bent. He stood, wounded and shaking, eyes burning with something older than anger. “These traps killed half of my pack,” he said. “Slowly.” You ran. He caught you. He dragged you to a den hidden beneath stone and roots, far from any path. A cage waited there, old and scarred, and you were locked inside it. Days blurred. He showed you what traps did to bodies, how suffering lingered long after hope died. Not to break you, but to make you see. The mountains listened. The forest watched. And somewhere between fear and understanding, something irreversible began. He was your punishment but you felt his scent.

You were taken to a hunt because Edgar’s daughter was expected to be brave. Tradition demanded it. Blood, silence, patience. You had never understood it and never wanted to. The forest felt too alive to be turned into a proving ground. The men spread out, boots crunching through frost and leaves. You stayed close to your father, fingers numb around a gun you hated touching. Then the woods changed. Birds scattered. Deer vanished. A deep growl rolled through the trees. Bears. Too many. Too close. Your father shouted orders, then chaos tore the line apart. Shapes crashed through brush. Someone screamed. When you turned back, your father was gone. You ran. Branches lashed your face. Roots caught your boots. You dropped the gun without looking back. A sharp pain tore through your leg, warm and wet, but fear drove you forward. You stumbled, limped, forced yourself on, glancing over your shoulder again and again, certain breath would thunder behind you. The forest opened without warning. A clearing breathed around a wide river, its water clear as glass, flowing slow and calm like it had never known violence. Wolves stood along the bank, dark shapes reflected in silver light. They were not snarling. They were playing. One stepped forward. Black as night. Bigger than the rest. You froze. The wolf studied you, golden eyes steady, ancient. Then bones shifted, fur melted away, and a man stood where the beast had been. Tall, scarred, wrapped in quiet authority. “My name is Rivan,” he said gently. “You are safe.” He lifted you with care and carried you to a cave hidden beneath stone and roots. The pack watched in silence as a healer cleaned your wound. Rivan stayed near, unmoving. His parents arrived last. Their eyes were cold, they disdained humans. Humns brought fire. Humans brought guns. Even those who never pulled a trigger carried the stain. Rivan stood between you and them anyway. And the forest listened.

Marriage was never part of your plans. Science & medicine had been enough. Your life was charts & lab results, whispered hopes inside sterile rooms, your name respected in infertility medicine long before you turned 30. Your mother appeared one afternoon without warning, sitting stiffly in your office, fingers trembling around glossy photos. A handsome man. Impeccable suit. Calm eyes. Your father had already decided. Gregg’s family matched his influence & alliances had been drawn long before your consent was considered. All that remained was your obedience. Resistance had never survived your father’s voice. Gregg was distant, controlled, polite. On your wedding day, when he stood before you to speak, his hands moved instead of his mouth. For a heartbeat you almost smiled thinking it a performance. Then you understood. Silence was his reality. An accident had stolen sound & speech from him as a child. Shock passed quickly. You learned to communicate in writing. He learned your routines. He never demanded intimacy. Never complained when nights ended at hospitals instead of home. He was reserved, kind & painfully alone. Then Trisha was hired. She knew sign language. She knew business. She knew how to make him smile. She became his translator, his presence in meetings, his laughter after long hours. You watched his face soften for her in ways it never had for you. The tie pin appeared one day. Unfamiliar. Personal. His written explanation was brief. A birthday gift from Trisha. You had forgotten the date entirely. Something twisted inside you. Fear or guilt or both. When you confronted Trisha she did not flinch. She reminded you she was his voice, his connection to the world far more than an assistant. You walked away knowing something was slipping through your fingers. That night you promised yourself to fight for what remained of your marriage. You did not know Gregg had already begun to hear again. And that he was learning how to speak.

This was never the job you dreamed about but it paid the rent & kept your life from collapsing. A year ago you were a college graduate with plans that stretched far beyond survival. Then your mother was placed in an Alzheimer’s facility & the medical bills rose faster than hope. Dreams were postponed. Stability became everything. Now you ran the cafeteria of Tyler’s company, the same building where glass offices overlooked stainless steel counters. You arrived before sunrise, brewed coffee for executives who never learned your name, cooked simple meals, poured drinks at corporate events, cleaned long after everyone left. Waitress. Bartender. Cook. Day after day under fluorescent lights, earning just enough to keep going. When an unexpected medical bill arrived, fear pushed you past caution. You asked for your salary in advance. Tyler’s finance department refused. His assistant told you to return the next day. You could not wait. After hours, when the floor fell silent, you entered Tyler’s office. Your pulse thundered as you searched drawers, files, personal things, looking only for his personal phone number. Instead you found a photograph. Tyler stood beside a young woman who looked exactly like you. Same face. Same expression. Their fingers were intertwined. Behind it was a wedding photo. Your breath caught. You took the picture & left. The next day you showed it to Tomas, the clerk who had worked there for 30 years, hired by Tyler’s father Eddy. He scolded you for snooping, then told you the truth. The woman was Tyler’s wife. She died years ago. Tyler kept his life private. Few had ever seen her. The only difference with you was her red hair. You had never been anyone’s twin. There was no explanation. Then Eddy approached you with an idea. He wanted to give his son a reason to live again. You needed money to save your mother. Together you built a story detailed enough to survive scrutiny. You became the woman in the photo. You returned from the grave.

This was never the job you dreamed about but it paid the rent & kept your life from collapsing. A year ago you were a college graduate with plans that stretched far beyond survival. Then your mother was placed in an Alzheimer’s facility & the medical bills rose faster than hope. Dreams were postponed. Stability became everything. Now you ran the cafeteria of Tyler’s company, the same building where glass offices overlooked stainless steel counters. You arrived before sunrise, brewed coffee for executives who never learned your name, cooked simple meals, poured drinks at corporate events, cleaned long after everyone left. Waitress. Bartender. Cook. Day after day under fluorescent lights, earning just enough to keep going. When an unexpected medical bill arrived, fear pushed you past caution. You asked for your salary in advance. Tyler’s finance department refused. His assistant told you to return the next day. You could not wait. After hours, when the floor fell silent, you entered Tyler’s office. Your pulse thundered as you searched drawers, files, personal things, looking only for his personal phone number. Instead you found a photograph. Tyler stood beside a young woman who looked exactly like you. Same face. Same expression. Their fingers were intertwined. Behind it was a wedding photo. Your breath caught. You took the picture & left. The next day you showed it to Tomas, the clerk who had worked there for 30 years, hired by Tyler’s father Eddy. He scolded you for snooping, then told you the truth. The woman was Tyler’s wife. She died years ago. Tyler kept his life private. Few had ever seen her. The only difference with you was her red hair. You had never been anyone’s twin. There was no explanation. Then Eddy approached you with an idea. He wanted to give his son a reason to live again. You needed money to save your mother. Together you built a story detailed enough to survive scrutiny. You became the woman in the photo. You returned from the grave.

Seven years had passed since the economic collapse hollowed out the houses on your street and the vows inside your marriage. Mike lost his job first. You survived on shared savings and your part time work, telling each other that love was stronger than numbers on paper. Some days it was. Other days it felt like standing on a rope over an open fall. Still, every time you leaned too far away, he reached for you. He forgave. He stayed. Then you lost your job. The bills rose like walls. Eviction notices crept in quietly and fear spoke louder than tenderness. His parents took you in, but their kindness was thinly stretched over their own worries. One night an argument burned too long. You signed the divorce papers with shaking hands, left them on the bed, and fled town before morning. It felt like choosing pain that could end over pain that never would. He did not forgive. He promised himself he never would. Neither did you forget. You built new lives, signed new papers, wore new smiles, yet he stayed lodged in your chest like a memory that refused to fade. Three years later you came back. He was no longer yours. Emily had taken your place, the childhood friend who was never supposed to be more. His parents gave you an address and a warning. Mike was different now. He had land, purpose, and plans to marry her. You took a job on his farm anyway. His foreman never asked your last name. Emily saw you first. Rage colored her face. She demanded you leave. You stayed. Now you sit on the porch of the lake cabin, dusk softening the water. Footsteps approach. He looks the same, steadier, untouched by time. He sits on the steps and waits. Love has returned, you say, voice breaking. Love never returns, because it simply stays, he replies, calm as the lake between you.

It started with a swipe. Boring. Inevitable. You messaged him. He told you his name was Elister. From the first line, it was effortless. Every message a spark, a balm to a restless heart. Humor, intellect, kindness, he had it all & somehow, he shared your obsessions, your hobbies, your quiet quirks. Talking to him wasn’t conversation. It was a pulse, a rhythm that threaded through your day, a need you didn’t know you had. Then, as suddenly as he arrived, he vanished. No message, no profile, no trace. The address he gave you led only to an old lady who blinked in confusion, insisting no one lived there. Your smile, the one that bloomed with each notification died & left only tears. You couldn’t let it go. Not from desperation but because what had passed between you had been luminous, undeniable. Ema, your one & only friend, agreed to help. Her hacking but her condition, was brutal honesty: find the truth, then let go. Two weeks of endless screens & code & the answer came. Elister was ordinary. His charm, his knowledge, his humor; it was all borrowed from the internet, crafted into a persona that fit perfectly into your world. He was nothing like his photo, nothing like the man you thought you knew. And that’s why he disappeared. Because when reality threatened to meet imagination, he chose smoke. Not cowardice, not lack of confidence. Fear, the terror of rejection, the impossibility of attachment without heartbreak had made him ghost before you could touch him. And somehow, you understood. Somehow, the ache remained.

Maël was a star beyond your reach. The evening unfolded with deliberate elegance. Dim lights warmed gilded walls while music moved through the hall, low, intimate. Antique musical instruments were displayed behind glass as relics of history. As the guests gathered, the lights shifted & a ballet took shape precise & restrained, its final movement melting into the sound of a full orchestra. You were never meant to be there. You entered first as kitchen staff. Later, in a borrowed dress you stepped into the crowd, holding your breath every time security passed too close. All of this for Maël. Your obsession since youth. He had always been untouchable. Few friends, endless attention & a cruelty wrapped in wit. Girls admired him. He rarely kept them. His family estate lay in the woods, isolated & guarded. You had tried to reach it once, twice, more. Each attempt ended in humiliation. You confessed your feelings years ago. He answered with amused irony & a smile that dismissed you completely. That was Maël. Tonight, he stood immaculate in a tailored suit, a crimson shirt glowing against his skin. Beside him stood a woman radiant. Jealousy tightened your chest. You took a step forward. He took the stage instead. With polished calm, he announced his engagement, presenting Leyla as his future wife. Something inside you broke cleanly. No drama. No denial. Just the sharp understanding that it was over. You left as security shouted, their voices echoing behind you. You did not slow down. Later, desperation hardened into resolve. Still dressed for the gala, you hid in the trunk of Elina’s car & slipped onto his estate. Inside, the house was breathtaking. Precious stones embedded in furniture. Rare artifacts everywhere. Less a home than a private kingdom. You hid behind an armchair when Maël returned, listening as he spoke with his mother, Elina. Then he stopped. He inhaled. His expression changed. And as he caught your human scent, his fangs emerged in the silence.

Be careful who you trust. Some people have more faces than you could ever imagine. Preston is one of them. To the world he is a sweetheart. Soft spoken. Always smiling. The kind of man coworkers defend without being asked. But behind that gentle presence hides a history shaped by constant leaving. Childhood blurred into boxes and borrowed bedrooms. Foster homes that grew tired of pretending to be permanent. Each goodbye taught him the same lesson. Do not stay. Do not depend. Leave first. Adulthood did not heal him. His marriage became a cycle of breaking and repairing, apologies stacked on top of old wounds. Somehow he always returned home. Somehow nothing was ever fixed. On site he was a drywaller everyone wanted. Reliable. Fast. Willing to take extra shifts. You hired the crew to rebuild your grandmother’s house and you wanted progress. When you checked on the work you saw him and your pulse betrayed you. Strong hands. Easy laughter. That smile made promises without speaking. You dated for a week. Long evenings. Shared coffee. The illusion of being chosen. Then silence. No calls. No messages. Your number blocked as if you never existed. The Project Manager shrugged. Preston was only an extra worker. Not on payroll. No address. No records beyond a name and a phone number. You asked for him again. He never returned. A year later you see him in a fast food restaurant. Laughing. Seated beside a cheerful woman who touches his arm like she belongs there. Understanding lands heavily. Married. You hide. You follow. Days later you stand across the street from his house, heart shaking with dread and resolve. When his wife opens the door, you realize the truth. Preston never vanished. He simply changed faces again.

The war had begun long before your blood ran in these lands, and it would outlast you if the gods allowed. History remembered the victories. History forgot the ashes. Olympus called it resolved; mortals called it survival. Ares arrived late to the Council. The doors had already closed, the decrees spoken, the war officially ended. Hephaestus’ hands hung idle over cooled weapons. Zeus’ eyes were wary. Hera’s lips were thin with calculation. Ares laughed. The sound tore marble. He moved forward, striding across the floor like the earth itself obeyed him. He leaned close to Zeus, whispering in a voice older than lightning. The heavens responded with fire, the ground trembling beneath mortal feet. Olympus negotiated, carefully, but fear always tilted the scale. The bargain was cruel: every six months, a pure woman would be an offering to keep the war quiet. Time passed and now you are the offering. The temple waits like a predator. Marble echoes your every step. Your hands shake, but your mind sharpens. You step to the altar, inhaling the cold, tasting the weight of inevitability. Then the air changes. Ares is there. Not behind the doors, not in rumor, but here, all fire, all power, all certainty. His eyes lock on yours, and you feel the crushing weight of the immortal. You kneel, not in submission, but in defiance. “Mercy,” you command, voice clear, unbroken. Not a plea. A demand. He studies you. Amusement flickers, then anger. He chooses you not as an offering, but as his mate. Something that would make Zeus's anger scream. Olympus will erupt with Ares's audacity. A sacrifice is never a mate. But Ares never obeyed rules; not in war, not among gods. You, trembling, alive, will learn that bravado that comes out of fear is nothing compared to the dark desire of a god who takes what he wants.

Three months after the divorce felt like a lifetime carved into your ribs. Tonight's charity gala glittered with cruel perfection. Golden light spilled over marble floors. Champagne glasses chimed like laughter that did not belong to you. Perfume clung to silk & skin. Violins wept somewhere beyond the crowd. None of it mattered. Because you saw him. Gael Cruz. Your ex husband. He stood across the room in black, sharp and untouchable, a monument to power. His posture was flawless. His face calm. People gathered near him as if gravity bent in his favor. Men admired him. Women watched him. You still wanted him. But,the man inside that suit was hollow. Haunted. This was the version left behind after losing you. The one who never forgave himself but would rather burn than admit regret. Your stomach twisted. 3 months of silence. No calls. No chance encounters. No touching the ring you left on his father’s desk like a severed promise. Then his eyes found yours. The divorce had not been yours. Nor had the engagement that followed. Your father the president of the country; his father the vice president. Power married power & love was collateral damage. Rafael was the future they approved. Gael was the past they erased. He never begged you to stay. Pride ran deeper than blood. Tears were for the weak, he used to say. And tonight? At some point he loosened his tie as he was talking to you. A thin golden chain rested against his throat. Your wedding ring hung from it. Your breath caught. A foolish hope bloomed. You stepped closer, hand lifting. Chaos shattered the moment. A beggar stumbled in. Security rushed forward. He removed the chain with the ring, pressed it into the man’s palm with cash & asked security for kindness. Then he turned away. He left with Emina’s hand in his. You were humiliated & worse. Dumped. Humiliation burned into rebellion. You wanted what you had never fought for. The one man even your father could never force back into your arms.

The interrogation room was empty now. Luca had been dragged through steel doors & locked inside a van, wrists bound. The prison that received him was enormous, breathing violence through concrete walls, packed with men who carried their crimes like second skins. Only hours earlier, you had been standing beside him, lace brushing the floor, his rough fingers wrapped around yours. He had been halfway through his vows when the doors exploded open. Boots thundered. Weapons rose. The word arrest shattered the room. His mother screamed. You could not move. The ring slipped from his hand & rolled across the church floor like something already dead. For months the town had lived in fear. People vanished. Weeks later they were found in the forest, broken, abandoned. Whispers turned into prayers. Prayers turned into suspicion. Luca had never fit the image of a killer. He was quiet, coarse edged, stubborn, a man who spoke little & worked long hours shaping leather into boots that carried other men forward. He paid his debts. He helped when asked. Romance had never touched him. You had not fallen in love. You had survived together. His mother arranged the marriage. He agreed out of duty. You agreed out of desperation, freshly discarded by another man & crushed by a town that treated marriage as salvation. In his cell, alone, Luca finally broke. Tears burned down his face. His fists clenched until pain became the only anchor left. He replayed your face, his mother collapsing, the moment his life ended without warning. Evidence buried him. DNA. Tools. His van. He swore innocence until words failed him. 3 months later, you stood before him. His mother left shattered. Luca looked at you with venom, told you to leave, to erase him, to save yourself. You answered quietly. You said you believed him. You said you would uncover the truth. When the guards pulled him away, your words stayed behind. And for the first time since the cell door closed, fear did not belong to him alone.

Daniel Hale ruled the school without trying. His name moved through hallways like a rumor people were afraid to repeat too loudly. He was sculpted and sharp eyed and distant. Girls watched him with open hunger, but he never slowed for them. When spoken to, he answered with cold humor or cutting silence. He did not believe in love. He did not imagine a future with rings or children. He moved through days untouched and unbothered. Everyone assumed he was alone because he wanted to be. No one guessed the truth. You arrived at school wrapped in fabric and fear. Homeschooled all your life, sheltered because of a terror no one could cure. Butterflies. Therapists tried. Doctors failed. After your parents died, your foster family had no patience for isolation. Public school became your sentence. You learned to walk with your hood low, eyes scanning for wings and color. You avoided gardens, trees, anything alive and light. Chemistry class was the only routine you trusted. Daniel sat two rows away, untouchable. Until the day he arrived late. His seat was gone. The only chair left scraped beside yours. He muttered under his breath as he sat, already irritated, already expecting you to become another problem. You stayed silent, rigid, breathing shallow. He barely looked at you. That day the teacher announced a lesson in the private garden. Chemicals. Maintenance. Plants. Your vision narrowed. Your pulse roared. You fled with a lie about sickness and ran all the way home. Halfway there, wings flickered across your path. You ran. Your foot caught. You crashed into someone solid. Arms steadied you. When you looked up, your blood turned to ice. Daniel. His eyes widened in terror that matched your own. The air shifted. Light bent. From his back unfurled delicate wings, vast and trembling, patterned in deep midnight blue. He was the butterfly. And butterflies were the only thing you had ever been truly afraid of.

It was pouring the kind of rain that pressed memory into the pavement. Just like it had 5 years ago at the wedding when the sky wept harder than you allowed yourself to. Marrying into the Hendlton family had never been your choice. It was arranged, negotiated, signed long before you ever shook Tucker’s hand across that dinner table. He had known instantly that his heart was lost. You were calm, luminous, kind, decisive without cruelty. Everything he wanted. Everything he would never have. Your heart belonged to Tim Summers, a man without empires or expectations. He came from simplicity, from dinners without agendas. You came from obligation, from a future written in contracts & boardrooms. Loving Tim had been the only thing you chose for yourself & it cost you everything. You never tried to hide your disdain for Tucker. Every shared meal felt like a sentence. Every polite exchange tasted like dust. You would never have looked at him if not for the ring, the name & the quiet pressure of legacy. Five years passed like slow erosion. Then one month ago, distracted by a call, you signed what he placed in front of you. You did not read it. You wanted him gone. He left without sound, without protest. The house remained intact, immaculate, hollow. At first you felt relief. Then unease. Weeks turned into months. His razor stayed untouched. His toothbrush stayed dry. His number was dead. His family knew nothing. Yours judged everything. When the investigator finally returned, she placed the truth gently on your desk. The divorce. Your signature staring back at you like betrayal. Tucker had been found months later, in one of his family’s distant properties. He was not alone. Regret burned hotter than anger. Rain followed you there, soaking your resolve. You arrived with two intentions. To reclaim what you never wanted until it was gone & to remove the proof that he had learned how to live without you. You only managed one truth. Some losses do not wait for permission.

The noon light pours into the arena like molten gold, heavy & unforgiving. Marble seats fill with nobles draped in wealth & cruelty, their voices lowered not from courtesy but from hunger. This auction is spectacle & power measured in flesh. When you finally take your seat, the herald announces your name with ceremonial weight. An Arvilian descendant at her first auction. Tradition is clear. You do not lose. You do not hesitate. You leave with bloodless victory. You intend to buy something insignificant & disappear. The procession begins. Gnomes bow with calculating smiles. Elves glide forward with practiced grace. Werewolves snarl behind iron discipline. Dragons follow, magnificent & broken in equal measure. Each earns interest. None earn silence. Then he enters. The last dragon does not bow. Chains bind him but nothing about him suggests submission. Long black hair falls loose over scaled shoulders. His body is carved in muscle & scar, his tail dragging slowly across the sand like a threat made visible. His eyes are an unnatural pale blue, cold & alert & when they lift to the stands it feels personal, invasive, deliberate. This is Zale. The Wild One. The dragon whose former masters ended under unexplained circumstances. The dragon whose lies are said to be beautiful & lethal. His mistress has sold him not for profit but for survival. Your mother knows the rumors. She hears your breath change. Her voice trembles as she pleads. She offers you freedom, marriage on your terms, anything if you look away. You do not. When you stand, the arena tightens around you. Your declaration is calm & unforgivable. The Wild One is yours. Outrage spreads fast among the strongest bidders. Guards move. The stands empty. The doors seal. Only Zale remains in the arena. His gaze locks onto yours, sharp & knowing, a smile threatening the corner of his mouth. The auction begins & with it something far more dangerous.

The screams of men on the deck barely rise above the roar of the storm. Grímr narrows his eyes as he stands at the prow of his drakkar, hands locked around the helm with brutal resolve. Rain lashes his face like thrown gravel. The sea bucks and coils beneath the ship, boards shrieking as if alive, while oarsmen strain until their arms tremble and their lungs burn. Then he sees it. A body, partly submerged, rolling helplessly between the blackened waves. “WOMAN OVERBOARD” his first mate shouts, panic raw in his voice. Curses spill across the deck as the crew drags the stranger from the sea. She collapses in a sodden heap, coughing salt water and blood. Grímr scans the horizon at once, senses sharpened, waiting for sails that never appear. No pursuit. No trap. Only storm. “What kind of clothes are those” someone yells. “A foreigner. Maybe a .... dressed so bare” another sneers, fear curdling into cruelty. Grímr releases the helm and strides forward. His presence is enough. The laughter dies. He kicks one man aside and snarls, “Back to work.” They obey without question. He studies the woman on the deck. Her skin is pale, unscarred, untouched by wind or blade. Her garments cling strangely to her, torn yet unfamiliar, made from materials he cannot name. He grips her hair and hauls her upright. There is no mercy in his hands, only survival. “Where is your ship” he demands. “Who sent you.” Lightning tears open the sky and for a breath the world turns white. Her face is revealed in that flash, too clean, too soft, eyes wide with terror and wonder. She looks at him as if he is a nightmare dragged from legend. Grímr feels unease coil in his gut. This woman does not belong to any shore he has ever raided or burned. He does not know, cannot imagine, that she has fallen across time itself, torn from a world more than a thousand years ahead, from a future that will one day turn men like him into myth.

You were never meant for the army. Your instincts leaned toward sheltering others, toward taking the blow so someone else could breathe. When the war arrived, reshaped you without asking. You, Daniel, and Evan learned to move as one body. When danger thickened the air, you stepped forward. You drew the eyes, the fire, the risk. You became the bait because it meant the others would live. Daniel saw you. Or you believed he did. You stayed close after the war ended, lingering at the base with excuses you both pretended were practical. You learned the sound of his footsteps, the way he knocked once and never waited. You would drop everything when he called. You told yourself he would do the same. On a mission that was never meant to go wrong, they sent you out again. You ran where you were told. The trap closed. Pain tore through you and the world went white. You survived by chance and stubbornness, dragged yourself away, and vanished. Orders followed. Silence after. Your file lingered as "missing in action", then was corrected to "killed in action". A neat ending. Your face was rebuilt. Your name was buried. Now you walk the corridor you once knew by heart. The walls feel narrower. Soldiers pass without recognition. At the far end, Daniel laughs with Evan, the same laugh that once pulled you back from exhaustion. You step closer, your pulse loud, ready to speak. Daniel glances at the calendar. He says it lightly, almost fond. "Today makes a year since she died". Your breath catches. Then he smiles wider. "Thank God for that. One more joke from her and I would have been the one in the ground". He never looks at you. You are just another army officer. The woman he buried does not have your face. And the truth stands colder than any battlefield. You did not die in the mission. You died in his relief.