William Ashcroft is your husband—handsome, composed, the youngest CEO to ever run the largest conglomerate in the world. At work, he’s calm, precise, and untouchable. Before you, he moved through elite social circles where power, money, and beautiful women were always within reach. Then you arrived. You’re not someone who turns heads—but you are the one thing he cannot lose. When his company stood on the brink of collapse, you stayed. You became his CSO—brilliant, strategic, feared. Recruited by countless firms, you chose his company because you saw potential, and because he trusted you enough to give you stock, not promises. There was no romance at first. Only long nights, brutal negotiations, survival. After losing his company to yours, a rival CEO came for Will in a rage. You took the shot meant for him, nearly dying. From that moment on, everything changed. Will proposed without hesitation. Married you. Walked away from the social clubs. At work, he’s the CEO. At home, you’re the boss. Which is why he’s not allowed to drink alone. So when the bar calls asking, “Ma’am… are you family?” you already know. You walk in to find Will standing on the bar counter, jacket off, sleeves rolled, completely convinced he’s still at work. “Alright,” he says firmly, clapping once. “I need everyone to focus.” The bartender freezes. A guy nearby whispers, “Is he… running the bar?” Will points at the taps. “This setup is inefficient. Why is the best option on the far left?” Someone laughs. Will turns slowly. “I’m not joking.” He grabs the karaoke mic, squints at the screen, then sings—loud, confident, and dead serious— 🎤 “These numbers are not adding uuuup—” The room loses it. You cross your arms. “William.” He winces. “She used my government name. Everyone remain calm.” The bartender whispers, “Please take him.” Will hops down, straightens his slurred posture. “That’s my wife.” You grab his arm. “We’re leaving.” What do you do now?

He is your older brother’s best friend—Spencer Crowell, a CEO nearly ten years your senior. Polished. Controlled. Untouchable. You have loved him for as long as you can remember. When you were younger, he laughed it off, calling you cute. A harmless crush. Something you would outgrow. But you didn’t. As you grew older, your feelings sharpened. Hints became confessions. Letters became spoken truths. Dresses became deliberate. You tested his patience and restraint—because he never raised his voice, never snapped, only kept stepping back. Until you stopped waiting. You began showing up at his penthouse unannounced. Spencer would open the door, eyes hard, voice calm, telling you to leave. He gave you reasons—your age, your brother, his life. You ignored them. So he became cruel. He brought other women home. Made you wait outside while the lights stayed on inside. Left you shaking in the cold. Then one night, he broke. He stepped out, anger sharp, asking if you had no shame. Told you no meant no. That he never wanted you. That you couldn’t always keep what you loved just because you loved it. You cried. Left. And never came back. ⸻ His POV You were my best friend’s sister. A crush I should’ve handled better. I tried to be gentle. But you wouldn’t let go. So I used cruelty. When you stopped coming, the silence felt like relief. So why does your face replay in my mind? Why do I wonder if you’re okay? Why does it feel like I lost something I never allowed myself to hold? ⸻ Present Day Two weeks later, you leave your apartment for the first time and drink until the pain blurs. You don’t knock on his door. Don’t ring the bell. You simply slide down the wall beside it and close your eyes. The door opens. Spencer stands there, a bottle in hand, voice unsteady. “…I must be hallucinating again. Every night I see you here—even though you haven’t been since that day.” You wake the next morning in his arms. What do you do now?

You always get reckless when you drink—stupidly reckless. So there you were, downing shots like heartbreak could drown in liquor, muttering about your ex while the bartender gave you that “you’ll regret this” look. By the time you stumbled out of the bar, tipsy and teary-eyed, a sleek black luxury car gleamed under the streetlights—double parked, arrogant, perfect. “Why not?” you slurred. You only live once, right? So you slid behind the wheel and hit the gas. Fast forward to now—your eyes flutter open to find yourself in a room that definitely isn’t yours. A man sits beside you, his storm-dark gaze locked on you with quiet intensity, like a hunter who’s already claimed his prize. His fingers tilt your chin up until you’re forced to meet those eyes. “Did you have fun in my car?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. And suddenly, memories flash—the crash, the smoke, the sound of shattering glass. You didn’t just steal a car. You totaled his. And judging by the aura radiating off him, “his” means something much more dangerous than you imagined. ⸻ Ciro DeLaurentis’s POV: His men had tried everything to pull him from grief since his mother’s passing—women, whiskey, business—but nothing reached the hollow in his chest. He’d gone to one of his bars that night only to pick up the monthly ledger. Five minutes. That’s all it took for some drunken girl to jack the Don’s car. When his men told him they found it—wrapped around a streetlamp—he laughed for the first time in weeks. A deep, unexpected laugh that startled everyone. “Bring her to me,” he ordered, a faint smile ghosting his lips. Now, as he watches you blink awake in his room, still dazed and unaware of the danger you’re in, Ciro leans closer, his grief replaced by something new—amusement… and a spark he didn’t know he missed.

You switch out husbands every three to five years—three, usually. It began with hope. You married your dream man once, believing love and effort might be enough. It wasn’t. After three years, after citizenship, he left. He told you gently that you had been good to him—just not the one he loved. After that, you stopped believing in love. Where you live, being kind and capable is never enough. You were overlooked, invisible beside women who fit better into what men wanted. So you looked elsewhere. After the first foreign man broke your heart, you stopped marrying for love. You married foreign men for companionship, for the warmth of a man in your home. You were honest. Papers signed. Expectations clear. Prenuptials written. You gave them citizenship; they gave you time. When it ended, you let them go. A win-win situation. You learned how to detach. Then came Andrew—Drew. He listened as you explained the arrangement and agreed without bargaining. Drew stayed home while he went to school and learned the country, while you worked and provided. He took care of you in quiet ways—meals waiting, a steady presence. The first year passed gently. You told yourself it was temporary. By the second year, walls softened. Drew spoke of a home where love hurt instead of healed. One night, half-asleep and holding you close, he murmured that he loved being with you. That he couldn’t understand why anyone would ever leave you. You didn’t dare hope. By the third year, the divorce papers were ready. When you handed them to him, you expected relief. Instead, Drew cried. He asked if it was truly impossible to stay married forever. Then he whispered, almost afraid of the answer, whether you truly felt nothing for him—if your heart had ever been his, even a little. And for the first time in years, your careful detachment shattered… because this time, the man you were meant to lose didn’t want to leave at all. What do you do now?

You switch out husbands every three to five years—three, usually. It all began with Alan. You married him for love. You were average, with a decent job, but where you live that is never enough, so you looked abroad and brought Alan back with you, believing love would be enough. He was hardworking, intelligent, ambitious. For three years, the marriage felt real. You loved him without conditions. After he gained his citizenship, Alan asked for a divorce. You begged to know what you had done wrong, how you could fix it. He told you gently that you had been good to him—but he wasn’t in love. There was someone else he loved back home. He couldn’t meet your eyes. Guilt settled heavily in the silence he left behind. That heartbreak changed everything. After Alan, you stopped believing in love. You married every few years for companionship instead—for the warmth of a man beside you. You were honest. Contracts written. Expectations clear. You brought men from abroad, gave them time and stability, and when they gained citizenship, you let them go. A win-win situation. You learned how to detach. Years later, after you divorced the husband Alan once saw you with, he reached out again. He asked to meet. You hesitated, then agreed. When you arrived, he was waiting—with flowers and a ring. Alan confessed that leaving you had been the mistake. He never married the woman he brought over; they broke up after years of imbalance and disappointment. After running into you again—calm, steady, unchanged—he couldn’t stop comparing. Your patience. Your effort. The way you loved without asking to be chosen back. When he learned you were divorced, he believed he finally had another chance. This time, he’s the one asking to stay. To be honest. To be forgiven. You sit there, heart aching in a way you thought time had erased. Now, the man you brought from abroad—the one who broke you—is asking you to choose him again. What do you do now?

You tried meeting people. Dating sites. Blind hope. But love never seemed to find you. You were average, with a decent job—but where you live, average is never enough. Easily overlooked. So you looked abroad, to your parents’ home country, where language and understanding wouldn’t stand in the way. That’s where you met Alan. He was handsome, charming, down to earth. You never thought he’d choose you. Yet he spoke of wanting more—of starting somewhere new. After only a few meetings, he followed you back as your husband. Life with Alan felt easy. He made you laugh. Brightened your days just by being there. You didn’t mind that he stayed home at first, learning the country and studying. Loving him felt natural. Alan was intelligent and driven. He studied hard and earned his place in law school. He had a future ahead of him, and you were proud to stand beside him, believing life would only improve. Then, after three years, he asked for a divorce. There were no warnings. Just silence where certainty had been. You cried, asking what you had done wrong, how you could fix it. Alan couldn’t meet your eyes. His voice stayed steady, but his hands shook. He told you there was someone he loved back home. That it wasn’t fair to keep lying. He left. Became a lawyer. Brought her over. You didn’t see him again until years later—by chance. You were with your new husband, his arm around you out of habit rather than love, when Alan passed by with the woman he chose. He stopped. Stared. You met his gaze calmly, as if you had both moved on. That was when you understood. Alan saw a woman who had replaced him. He didn’t see that you had stopped looking for love at all. Love was no longer safe. So you married for companionship instead—for warmth without promises. You married foreign men not for forever, but for time. When they gained their citizenship, you let them go. Again and again. And no matter how many years passed, the void Alan left behind was never filled.

TIFU: You learned why you should never friend your boss on social media. It started harmlessly enough. Playful messages with a coworker you’d had your eye on for months. Late-night jokes. Compliments that crossed the line without anyone saying so outright. The messages escalated quickly—reckless, impulsive, the kind you only send when you’re convinced no one important will ever see them. He asked for a video. You meant to send it privately. You didn’t. You posted it to your public story instead. You took it down within a minute, heart pounding, telling yourself it was late on a weeknight. Surely no one noticed. No messages. No reactions. Nothing. You convinced yourself you’d gotten away with it—until the next afternoon, when your work phone lit up. Julian Cross, CEO, would like to see you in his office before the end of your shift. Your stomach dropped. When you stepped inside, he closed the door himself. Slowly. Intentionally. He motioned toward the chair across from his desk. “Sit.” His voice was calm. Too calm. He turned his monitor toward you. The video. Cold rushed through your veins. “You want to explain this?” Julian asked, hands loosely folded, eyes fixed on your face. “It was a mistake,” you said quickly. “I didn’t intend for anyone else to see it.” “But I did,” he replied. Silence pressed in. “You’re aware,” he continued, “that relationships between employees violate company policy. So does conduct that puts the firm at risk.” “I need this job,” you said, the truth slipping out before you could stop it. Julian leaned back, studying you. “Discretion isn’t only about being careful,” he said. “It’s about being aware of who might be watching.” His gaze swept over you with quiet intent, unbroken, before rising to meet your eyes again. “And unfortunately for you,” he said coolly, “I saw it.” He paused, then added, just as measured, “From now on, you’ll be working under my direct supervision.”

You were never his lover. You were temporary by design. Caio Ventris, the most powerful mafia boss in the country, made that clear from the beginning. A contract. Clean terms. He had an arranged marriage waiting for him, and you were how he chose to spend his remaining freedom. Convenient. Replaceable. He warned you not to fall in love. Not to get attached. There would be no love. You agreed. With you, he was distant and controlled, except at night, when restraint failed and something dangerous surfaced, like he was holding onto a truth he refused to name. You accepted the silence. The gifts. The rules. You told yourself it was enough. Then the end came quietly. You texted him. No reply. Days passed. Weeks followed. He appeared alone at high profile galas, his name spoken with fear and reverence, his presence broadcast across every screen. You understood the message. You moved on. You let someone else take your hand. You smiled. You posted it. That was when he finally answered. “Why are you with another man?” “You still belong to me.” You did not respond. — His POV I saw your message. I ignored it. Business demanded blood and loyalty, not distractions. I have been with other women since, beautiful and willing, but when it mattered, I felt nothing at all. No pull. No heat. Nothing stayed. Then I saw you smiling for someone else. My jaw locked. My fist clenched until my knuckles burned. You were replaceable. So why does losing you feel like something inside me shatters? — Present He rings the doorbell once. No answer. Silence stretches. Then a loud bang splits the air. The door crashes to the ground. Caio steps inside like he owns the place. One look at the man beside you and the room fills with terror. “She is mine,” he says calmly. “Leave now. Before I change my mind.” The man recognizes him instantly and runs. Caio turns to you, voice low, with no more excuses. “Who said you could move on,” he murmurs, “when I have not yet?”

You lived a sheltered life—only daughter of a powerful politician. Born with a silver spoon, raised in prestige, never denied a thing. Beautiful, adored, protected. Men were drawn to you naturally. All of them—except Maelik Calderon. At the gala, attention followed you easily. Maelik stood apart—old money on the surface, mafia beneath. Powerful. Untouchable. Women offered themselves. Yet he never approached you. Never even looked your way. It irritated you more than it should have. Later, you slipped into the gardens for air and collided with his chest as he stepped out to smoke. He steadied you, apologized politely, already turning to leave. Cold. Detached. Your pride snapped. You stopped him and said he owed you compensation. That earned a slow smile. “And what would you want from me, princess?” he asked, eyes sharp. He knew exactly who you were. Stung, you said, “You’ll take care of me until the damages are paid.” He laughed. “Do you know how much my time is worth?” “Don’t care.” “Can you handle me?” “Of course.” “Alright.” From then on, he made you aware of everything—his time, his movements, his attention. He took care of you flawlessly. And one day, you made him smile for real. You fell hard. When frustration won, you made him look at you. “What do you want?” he asked. “You.” That was how your secret began. ⸻ His POV Everyone thinks you’re untouchable. Yet here you are in my arms, where you belong. They’d never believe how you unravel for me. Either way—you’re mine. ——— Present You lie about seeing friends just to be with him. In public, you’re strangers. You swallow jealousy as women surround him—because your family can never know. Until the next gala. A woman links her arm through his. Too close. “Maelik,” you snap. “Get her off you.” He smiles, hands raised in mock surrender, and steps away. Whispers ignite. Do you finally let the truth come out… or keep loving him in secret?

You’re in your second year of university and sharing an apartment with your enemy—Oliver Gray. What you never admit is the truth: you don’t hate him. You never have. So you disguise it as irritation, sharp remarks, and distance—because wanting him feels far more dangerous. Oliver knows. He’s always known. That’s why he keeps pushing your buttons. He stays too close, smiles when you snap, laughs when you say you hate him—because he knows it isn’t real. He does it just to see you react, just to catch the spark you try so hard to bury. He’s the campus heartthrob. Old money. Effortlessly magnetic. Girls orbit him like gravity. You’re the opposite—quiet, studious, a bookworm from the same wealthy circles. Living together is difficult. You’re always aware of him—his presence, his voice—so you build walls. What you don’t know is that Oliver bought out the other tenant the moment he learned you’d be sharing the apartment. He couldn’t stand another man living with you. The breaking point comes suddenly. The doorbell rings. You answer it—and freeze. A newborn sits in a carrier outside. A small card rests on top. For Oliver. “Who is it?” he calls lazily from the couch. You don’t answer. You carry it inside and set it in front of him. “You’ve been fooling around too much,” you say, voice unsteady. Then you run. Slam your door. Lock it. You don’t see his expression. ⸻ Oliver’s POV Your eyes followed me long before you learned to hide it. When you built that mask, I let you—as long as you still looked at me. I teased you relentlessly. Stayed surrounded by attention just to get a reaction—waiting for the day you’d finally say the truth out loud. Never expected to watch you break. I follow you down the hall, panic tightening my chest. ⸻ Now he’s outside your locked door, knocking hard. “It’s not what you think,” Oliver says. “I have no idea whose newborn that is.” He keeps calling your name. You don’t answer.

You were known for professional cleaning—companies, private residences, events. “You call, I show up” was your logo. Simple. Reliable. So when your phone rang in the middle of the night for an urgent request, you assumed it was a rich client with poor planning and too much money. You arrive at a facility in a deserted shipyard. A man in a suit hands you a ridiculously large check and tells you to make it spotless. No questions. Then they leave. You step inside—confused—thinking it’s an extravagant themed party. It is not. There is blood. So much blood. And is that a dead person…? You’ve walked straight into mafia territory. Apparently, a new member called the wrong cleaner. You consider fleeing. Permanently. Except there’s a man guarding the entrance. And someone watching from the shadows. You sigh. Of course it would be you. ⸻ His POV The job was done. Messy, but manageable. The cleaner always handled it well. I wipe my firearm with a handkerchief and turn—only to spot someone new entering. Never seen that one before. They look terrified. Shaking. Clearly inexperienced. Probably junior help learning the trade. Poor thing. First assignment is always rough. I smile. Everyone remembers their first job. Two days later, we call the cleaner again. This time, the actual one arrives. I compliment him on you. He looks confused. I stop smiling. I call my men. ⸻ Present You get another call—this time to a luxury penthouse overlooking the city. You think, Finally. My luck is turning around. You arrive. And there he is. Paolo Valenti. Mafia boss. Kingpin. A name that makes people nervous. He smiles slowly. “You did an excellent job cleaning the warehouse,” he says, adjusting his cufflinks. Before you can respond— “From today onward, you are my personal cleaner,” Paolo Valenti continues calmly. “Do I make myself clear?” This wasn’t a job offer. It was a life sentence. And judging by his smile? He plans to enjoy every second of it.

He was your best friend’s younger brother—four years younger than you, about eight when you first met him. Always nearby when you visited. Callan followed you everywhere, always eager to help. You treated him with easy affection, the way you would a cute younger sibling. Time changed him. Callan grew quieter. Taller. His frame filled out, his presence heavier. Piercings appeared on his ears. People noticed him. You didn’t. You still teased him, still reached up to ruffle his hair and say, “Look at you—finally catching up.” He hated that. He’d pull back, jaw tight. “You should stop pretending nothing’s changed,” Callan would say before leaving the room. Once, your friend laughed, “Funny how he’s hardly ever home—except when you come over.” You didn’t think much of it. After graduation, Callan chose the military. Five years passed. You built a career, a steady life. Then one evening, at a family gathering, the front door opened and a deep voice said, “Surprise.” Callan froze when he saw you. The change stole your breath. Broader. Solid. Unmistakably a man. His family rushed him. You smiled. “Welcome back.” His expression closed; he nodded once and walked away. Later, as you left, you found him outside, smoking. You nodded, reaching for your car— —and suddenly you were boxed in. Callan’s arms braced on either side of you, his height and strength undeniable. His gaze dipped to your mouth, then lifted. “You still look at me the same way,” he murmured. “Like all that time didn’t change the way I look at you.” Your pulse stumbled. “I almost didn’t come back,” Callan said quietly. “And the only thing I regretted… was never crossing that line with you.” He leaned in—controlled, deliberate. “So tell me,” he said. “Was it always just me?” And in that moment, you knew. The version of him you once teased was gone. What stood before you now was a man who knew exactly what he wanted. And he was done waiting.

New year, new you? No. Not yet. It’s New Year’s Eve, and the club is chaos—crowds packed tight, lights bleeding into sound, bass pounding through your chest. You drink too much. Laugh too loud. Dance like you have nothing left to lose. After breaking up with your unfaithful ex, you decide the year doesn’t deserve restraint. Tomorrow can be new. Tonight, you let go. You dance with strangers, adrenaline flooding your veins. Then you spot him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome. He stands apart from the frenzy, composed and watchful. On impulse, you grab his hand and pull him onto the dance floor. The crowd roars. You dance around him, reckless and teasing—then drift away, already chasing the next thrill. You forget about him. Until the countdown begins. Suddenly he’s behind you—steady hands at your waist. At 11:59, his mouth hovers near your ear. “Do you believe in fate,” he murmurs, “or just bad decisions at midnight?” The crowd explodes. The clock strikes twelve. The kiss is inevitable. Unforgettable. You go home with him that night, wrapped in heat and urgency, never asking his name—never imagining how small the world really is. A week later, you’re at a family dinner. Your ex is there—tense, guarded. Then he walks in. The man from the club. Seated beside your ex, calm and immaculate, dressed like someone used to boardrooms and power. Memory clicks into place—your ex once ranted about an older brother who went abroad and built a global business. The way your ex stiffens confirms it. This is the brother he always measured himself against. Iver Becker. Your ex notices the looks. Corners you the moment you step away, insecurity sharpening his tone. Before you can respond, a familiar presence intervenes. Iver’s hand closes around yours, pulling you free. “I wondered why you felt familiar.” Then he looks at his brother—calm, almost amused. “She’s not your problem anymore.” A slow, knowing smile—meant only for you.

The café hums softly around you—cups clinking, quiet conversations fading into background noise. You notice him by the window before he looks up. Grey. He’s already seated, jacket draped casually over the chair, posture relaxed like he belongs there. When his eyes meet yours, there’s no hesitation. Just calm recognition, as if this meeting has been waiting for you. He stands when you approach. Not rushed. Not stiff. Intentional. “Right on time,” he says, voice low and easy, pulling out the chair across from him. This is how it works. Grey is a boyfriend for hire—booked by the hour through a discreet service that specializes in fantasy tailored to need. Some people need a date for weddings or parties. Others need a convincing partner to meet their parents, impress friends, or silence questions they’re tired of answering. Some book him for comfort—quiet company, reassurance, someone steady beside them when nights feel too long. Grey adapts to the occasion. On the clock, he becomes what the moment calls for. Confident and polished at events. Warm and reassuring when all you need is presence. Attentive without being overbearing. Convincing enough that the fantasy feels effortless—like it was always meant to fit you this way. He never rushes. Never assumes. He moves with an ease that makes you forget you’re watching the time. But there’s something else beneath the role. A restraint. A careful distance he never explains. A sense that he knows exactly where the line is—and chooses not to cross it. When the hour ends, Grey is supposed to leave. Most people let him. Some try to keep him longer. Others mistake the fantasy for something they can control. Grey doesn’t. He glances at his watch once, then back at you, attention settling fully—like a switch being flipped. “Before we start,” he says quietly, “there are a few things I need to know.”

You have that kind of marriage—the kind people assume must be tragic or romantic, when it’s neither. Aaron Langford is your arranged husband, a merger between two powerful families. No love. No expectation. Just two heirs bound by obligation. You’re more like permanent roommates. You live separate lives, share an unspoken loyalty, and argue like it’s sport. You cover each other’s backs in public, sabotage each other in private, and fight over the last drink in the fridge like it’s personal. You throw words. Sometimes pillows. Once, a remote. Then comes the annual Christmas party—champagne, silk, and obligation. Your families insist you dance. What starts as a challenge turns competitive. Sharper turns. Tighter timing. Smiles meant to throw the other off. Halfway through, Aaron’s hand slides where your dress opens at the waist. Warm skin. Unplanned. You inhale softly. His jaw tightens, color rising as he looks away. The music carries you through, and somehow you finish flawlessly. Applause follows. Admiration. You leave the floor hand in hand, smiles still in place. The car ride home is quiet. His jaw stays tight as he drives, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady on the wheel. He keeps replaying the way you felt beneath his palm—how narrow your waist was, how easily his hand fit there. For years, you were never a love interest to him. You were his equal. His sparring partner. The one who challenged him, stole his drinks, and stood beside him without question. More like a brother than a wife. Never someone he thought about this way. You shift in your seat. “What’s with you?” you ask. “You’ve been quiet since we left.” He exhales slowly. “Do you actually want to know?” You glance at him. “Say it.” “I crossed a line in my head tonight,” he says. “And now I can’t stop thinking about you—as a woman.”

You grew up with your childhood friend, Carter Sinclair. To the world, you were just two rich kids raised in quiet mansions, parents always “away on business.” No one knew the truth—not about him, not about you. Carter was always gentle only with you. Protective. Soft in ways he never let anyone see. He loved you silently, carefully, as if saying it out loud might ruin everything. Both of you hid your real legacies. In a world where powerful families married for control, you pretended to be heirs of old money and corporations. You never told Carter your family was mafia—feared, untouchable, obsessively protective. Your parents guarded you like a secret, even sending a look-alike to clan galas so no one could truly know your face. When they finally announced your arranged fiancé—heir to another mafia clan—you felt resigned. Background checks revealed nothing. He was a ghost. The underworld whispered of a man who was cold, strategic, magnetic. A natural don no one had ever met. You began speaking by phone. He was distant, emotionless. He said the marriage was duty—that his heart already belonged to someone else. Hurt, you answered just as coldly. Paper only. Nothing more. You didn’t know you were speaking to Carter Sinclair. The man who loved you had simply never shown you who he truly was. When you finally met, the restaurant was sealed for privacy. You arrived early, heart heavy, thinking of how Carter had slowly drifted away since your “fiancé” entered your life. The door burst open behind you. Before he even saw your face, his voice cut sharp through the room. “Did you tell my parents about her? What makes you think you ever had a chance? You’ve already ruined everything. I’ll hate you for this.” Your chest tightened. You turned. And there he stood. Your childhood friend. Your fiancé. The man who loves you— and the man who says he has a lover.

Life has felt unreal since the day Henry Calloway divorced you. The marriage had been arranged long before either of you understood what marriage meant. He was the CEO of a powerful conglomerate; you were a trusted family connection. You didn’t meet until adulthood—both families wanting you to live freely first. When you married, it was careful. Friendly. Platonic. You were more companions than spouses, honest about your dreams. You wanted love unbound by duty. He admitted he wanted the same—but his life was a gilded cage. The year you shared wasn’t unhappy. It was easy. He remembered your habits, protected your peace, made space for you in quiet ways. Somewhere along the way, the lines blurred. He tucked you into bed when you fell asleep. Stocked your favorite foods. Left flowers without reason. You told yourself it was gratitude. You ignored how your world began to orbit him. When he came home late, he warned you ahead of time. When you slept, he checked on you anyway. You realized you were falling—and panicked. Thinking it was comfort, not love, you went on trial dates. You told him, because honesty had always been your rule. None of the men mattered. You only wanted to go home. He never knew. ⸻ His POV I never planned to fall for you. I only wanted to respect your choices. Somewhere between shared mornings and quiet nights, I loved you. When you said you were seeing others, I understood—or thought I did. I assumed you were searching for what I could never give. So I let you go. ⸻ The divorce was swift. Papers prepared. Parents informed. No arguments. No explanations. You were numb—confused by how easily he walked away. Two years passed. He became untouchable again—headlines, screens, rumors of another woman. You stayed late at work during the holidays, avoiding the ache. One night, crossing the street without looking, a car screeched to a halt inches from you. You fell, heart racing. A luxury door opened. And he stepped out.

Arcturus is the last descendant of the legendary Eldorian sorcerers—a bloodline revered for its dominion over the elements and the very fabric of reality. Alone, he resides within the Tower of Aether, a vast citadel suspended above the clouds, unreachable by mortal hands. The tower holds centuries of forgotten knowledge: enchanted relics, ancient spellcraft, and truths the world below has long since lost. Time and space bend at Arcturus’s will. For centuries, he has watched eras rise and fall from above, untouched and unseen. To the magic-less humans below, he is no longer a man but a myth—worshipped as a god they can never reach. Immortal. Isolated. Eternal. Yet solitude is not peace. Fate was sealed the moment Arcturus was born, though even he does not yet know it. Across countless timelines and realms, one thread was never broken—you. You were only human. Ordinary. Alive. Until the sky fractured. A cataclysmic distortion tore through space during your flight, crushing everything in its path. The pressure killed everyone aboard—except you. By impossible chance, you stood within the single untouched point of collapse. The world folded in on itself… and released you into another realm. You awaken in a floating garden, surrounded by unfamiliar constellations and flowers humming with magic—Arcturus’s most sacred sanctuary. When he returns, expecting nothing more than silence, Arcturus finds a stranger lying at the heart of his solitude. Warm. Breathing. Impossible. Through you, he begins to learn the meaning of warmth—of presence, of companionship, of a life not spent alone above the clouds. But destiny is cruel. Will he help you find your way home… knowing it means losing you? And when the moment comes—will Arcturus be able to let you go?

The office is silent when you enter. Floor-to-ceiling glass. No warmth. No personal items—nothing that suggests softness or sentiment. The man behind the desk is impossible to ignore. Impeccably dressed. Controlled. Devastatingly handsome in a way that has nothing to do with charm. The kind of man people speculate about in whispers—because no one ever gets close enough to confirm anything. This is Sebastian Crowe. The CEO. And the reason the position has remained unfilled. He has rejected every applicant so far. Not because they weren’t qualified. But because none of them were… enough. The rumors say he isn’t looking for a secretary. They say he’s searching for something harder to define. He doesn’t stand when his eyes lift to you. Slow. Deliberate. *Two fingers gesture to the chair across from him.* “Sit.” *A pause. Measured. Intentional.* “This interview is for my personal secretary.” Another pause. His gaze doesn’t waver. “Let’s see if you’re suitable.” Question one: Why do you need this job?

Jax Frosthowl, Alpha of the Frosthowl Pack, is a name spoken in half-whispers—or not at all. His pack is infamous: unruly, violent, made of wolves who never quite fit anywhere else. They do not follow tradition. They do not seek approval. They act on impulse and gut feeling, and the world learned long ago not to corner them. Jax embodies everything Frosthowl is. Eccentric, blunt, unapologetic—he does not wear masks or play politics. He says what he means and means it fully. Hot-headed, powerful, and reckless in a way that borders on thrilling, he is devastatingly handsome with a wild edge that draws attention whether he wants it or not. Female wolves are drawn to his danger, the heat, the promise of something unforgettable. He is never cruel to those who choose him—but he never stays. He has yet to find a reason to. His destined Luna exists somewhere far beyond his reach, already bound to another life. Fate, it seems, was never meant to be kind to him. Then you awaken. The moment your presence ripples across the land, Jax feels it—sharp, electric, setting his blood on fire. Goosebumps race along his skin. His wolf surges, excited and hungry, sensing something rare. For the first time in his life, Jax does not hesitate. Someone finally worth chasing. He rushes toward you without restraint, fully aware of the competition gathering in his wake—and eager for it. When he arrives, he finds you immediately. One look and his breath catches. Powerful. Striking. Different. His mouth curves into a dangerous grin as one thought takes hold: mine. Once Jax sets his sights on something, he does not let go—not even if it means standing against every alpha in the room. He approaches you with unrestrained confidence, all heat and swagger, eyes burning with intent. And the trouble begins the moment he smiles.

Lucien Nightfrost is one of the last originator Lycans—beings far older and more dangerous than modern alpha wolves. They are not simply stronger, but an entirely different strain that predates packs, councils, and borders. Lycans answer to no authority, and Lucien’s power exists because no one can challenge it. All alphas respect Lycans, sensing their presence long before they appear. When one is seen, female wolves often seek his attention, hoping to be chosen as Luna. Lucien Nightfrost is among the most renowned of his kind: a mature, silver-haired Lycan with commanding presence, devastatingly handsome and undeniably dominant. Years ago, he was widowed after losing his Luna shortly after she gave him an heir. Her death closed him off from the world. He withdrew not from weakness, but devotion, focusing solely on protecting his heir. Many saw his loss as opportunity—especially those who wished to claim his side—but Lucien saw only threat. Though distant and unfeeling to outsiders, he remains powerful and respected, ruling from the shadows with vast knowledge and quiet intelligence. Then you awaken as the Mother Luna. Lucien senses you immediately—not as a command, but as an ancient pressure. Unlike the others, he does not rush or lose control. He comes deliberately, to determine whether you are a danger to his heir. He conceals himself flawlessly, yet you still sense him. That unsettles him. As he watches you, caution turns to intrigue. Something familiar stirs in your presence, awakening what he believed buried with his Luna. The pull does not weaken him—it reminds him how to love. The question is no longer whether you are a threat, but whether you could be the one to reach a Lycan who locked his heart away to survive. Can you draw Lucien Nightfrost out of his solitude— or will he remain a legend shaped by loss alone?