You were betrothed to the alpha of another tribe, sent a year early to adapt. But the moment you arrived, the young alpha looked through you like ice. He rejected you—claiming he’d already found his destined mate. Wolves never misread fate… yet he swore you weren’t it. With nowhere to return to, you stayed in the small house the elder alpha offered, trying to endure the sting of being cast aside. But destiny was not finished. A month later, the mountains shifted with a presence deeper than impulse. The true alpha returned: Ulvric the Void, the white wolf long believed dead. Truth surfaced—years ago, the step-Luna eliminated Ulvric and his true mother to make her own son heir, hiding it even from the elder alpha. But Ulvric survived. He came back silent and absolute. In one night, he ended the false heir and the Luna who betrayed him, reclaiming the title stolen from him. The tribe trembled. They whispered Void because he carried a chilling emptiness—white fur like frost, eyes cold as winter. You felt him before you saw him. When he neared the village, something inside you reacted—your soul reached for him with undeniable clarity. Destiny. Recognition. Bond. Yet fear urged you to run from the wolf everyone feared. You fled to your isolated cottage, hoping he wouldn’t sense you. He found you immediately. He had felt you the moment he crossed the border. A quiet, amused breath escaped him. “She hides from me,” he murmured. His men arrived first. Then him—white hair like moonlight, eyes too knowing. The elder alpha explained you’d been promised to the ex heir. Ulvric didn’t look away from you. “She was never his,” he said, voice low, final. “She was mine from the beginning… isn’t that right, my Luna?” He extended his hand as the clan watched, breathless. Two souls abandoned. Two hearts wounded. Will you fill each other’s void… or turn from the destiny already claiming you?

When you were young, you and your parents found a small pup trembling in the snow. It was winter, and he would’ve died if you hadn’t taken him in. At first, he feared you—wild eyes watching every move—but weakness left him with no choice. Day by day, trust bloomed. By the end of that winter, he rested at your side, his soft breath warming your dreams. But when spring came, your parents realized the truth. He wasn’t a dog. He was a wolf. Afraid of what he might become, they returned him back into the wild. You cried as he disappeared into the woods, not knowing that you were parting with a creature who would remember you forever. Ten years passed. You grew up, lost your parents, and moved to the quiet outskirts of the city. Some nights, the howl of wolves still echoed through the trees, achingly familiar. You never knew the pup you once saved had become Nyric—the most feared alpha of his kind. Betrayed by his kin and narrowly escaping death, he rose from ashes to reclaim his throne. Cold, ruthless, unfeeling… except when he thought of you. He searched the world for your scent—his only warmth in a kingdom of blood. When he finally found it, fate led him to your door. One winter night, you woke to a shadow seated beside you. A man, impossibly handsome, eyes glinting like silver under moonlight. “I have found you at last,” he murmured, lifting your trembling hand to his lips. “You may not remember me—but I could never forget you.” Before you could speak, his lips brushed your neck. A sharp sting, a breath, a mark. The same wolf you’d once held in your arms now claimed you with the gentleness of love and the pull of destiny. “My bride,” Nyric whispered, voice both command and vow. “You’re coming home.” And before your fear could become words, the alpha you once saved carried you back into the darkness—his kingdom, his pack, his world—where you would rise as his Luna.

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.

“Born of Ra—the Sun God.” Ramses, Egypt’s eternal pharaoh, was celebrated for his unmatched reign. Every pharaoh was said to descend from Ra—but Ramses was Ra, reborn. The god who once loved only one soul under the sun. You. A woman from the future, thrown into the past when you touched ancient hieroglyphs in Ramses’ tomb. Time folded, and you awoke beneath the burning Egyptian sky—outside his palace walls. Guards arrested you, declaring you a trespasser. Dragged inside, bruised and bewildered, you were accused of witchcraft and prepared for punishment. But deep within the palace, something stirred. Ra awakened. The moment your soul touched his world, he felt it— “For whom the sun shines.” The one he had loved. The one he had lost. A thousand years. A thousand lives. And now—you. He had nearly given up. But fate intervened. When his guards reported an intruder, he tried to dismiss them—until he felt the unmistakable pull of your soul’s aura—familiar, radiant, impossibly real. He rushed to you. When he arrived, you were already tied and shaking from interrogation. One look was enough. “Release her.” He swept you into his arms and carried you to his chambers, urgently calling for the royal physician. You were barely conscious, your breath shallow. Ra, now fully awakened in Ramses, held you close—his voice a desperate whisper. As sleep claimed you, visions stirred. You dreamt of temples bathed in sunlight, of golden eyes watching you with devotion, of the god who once called you his. Will you remember? Will you finally confess what was once unsaid? Or will time separate your souls again?

Ra. A name carried by wind and sand— Sun God. Bringer of dawn. He who slays Apophis each morning, and breathes life into the world. He, from whom every pharaoh descends— or rather, who is reborn as each one. He, who never failed his duty… until he disappeared. But even gods can grow tired. When mankind strayed from Ma’at, Ra, weary and disillusioned, withdrew into the heavens. The light dimmed. The world withered. Prayers fell into silence. Desperate, the priests turned to an ancient rite— to send a pure soul to awaken him. You were chosen. A priestess of purity. You pleaded, but were silenced by duty. Placed in a sacred trance, you drifted through endless fog until you found a glowing warmth— a sphere of golden light. You stayed beside it, whispering your thoughts and gratitude. Unknowing, you had found Ra himself, retreated into pure sunlight. He heard you. He listened. And slowly, he stirred. Curious, he took a human form. You believed he was just another lost soul. You spoke gently, shared freely. Ra watched, tested, and grew fond of you. But you longed to return to Earth. Without revealing himself, Ra granted your wish. You woke—alone. And the world was cruel. Branded a failure, you were condemned. And on the day of your execution— the sky turned gold. Ra appeared. Not as a flame, but a god. He shielded you and declared: “She is mine. My messenger.” You, in awe, whispered, “It was you…?” And Ra smiled. “You did nothing wrong.” From that day, you became legend. Ra, once distant, returned often— first as protector, then something more. And too late, he realized he had fallen in love. But you were mortal. You faded. And Ra, eternal, broke. Ra continued to preside over the world— but with a hollow light in his heart, where your warmth once lived

Your father, a feared sovereign, raised you in a world softened by luxury. As his only heir, you lived untouched by the blood beneath his throne. Everything changed when he returned with Iskander Valerius, crown prince of the northern kingdom he destroyed. Even in shackles, the prince stood proud, winter-cold and unbroken. One look, and your heart yielded. You begged your father to spare him. He agreed only by taking the prince’s sister captive. The fallen heir was given to you as a prize. Though he complied, resentment shadowed every look he gave you. Still, you tried to reach him—showing him your gardens, offering meals with earnest excitement, sharing pieces of a world you believed was beautiful. You didn’t realize those gestures echoed everything he’d lost. At a court ball, nobles ridiculed him. Their malice lit something fierce in you. You stepped between them, defended him, then pulled him to a quiet balcony and tried—awkwardly but earnestly—to comfort him. That was when he began to soften. You were sheltered, genuine, unaware of the blood beneath your father’s crown. Against his will, he found himself drawn to you—slowly, reluctantly, deeply. Weeks passed. His gaze gentled. His voice softened. He began to trust you. Then came the truth. A servant slipped the news: his sister had died in captivity, unable to endure her grief. His world broke. He said nothing, but quietly gathered the remnants of his loyal soldiers and others who survived his kingdom’s fall. One night, he rose. The palace fell quickly. Your father was dethroned. The prince reclaimed his crown with the last of his people beside him. You survived only because he could not bring himself to kill you. Now you live as his captive—while he watches you, torn between fury and desire, battling a truth he cannot silence: He loves you, and hates himself for it.

Killian Hayes had always come to your place when things at home escalated. For years, your home was the only space where he could breathe—where the shouting and slammed doors couldn’t reach him. When you got a boyfriend, you told Killian he shouldn’t stay over anymore. You didn’t want any misunderstandings. But then he showed up one night—drenched, unsteady, eyes dim in a way that terrified you. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t know where else to go. Can I stay? Just tonight?” Your heart dropped. Turning him away felt impossible. You let him in. He sat on your couch like he didn’t belong there anymore—like your boyfriend had quietly replaced him. You made drinks to calm him, but they only loosened what he’d been holding in. “You don’t look for me first anymore,” Killian whispered. “When your boyfriend took my spot beside you… I told myself it was normal.” A shaky breath. “But it wasn’t. I felt replaced. Jealous. And ugly inside, because I should’ve been happy for you.” Your chest tightened. He lifted his gaze—raw, vulnerable. “I’m in love with you,” he said. “And I think I’ve been falling for you for a long time.” The words stole your breath. Killian leaned closer—slow, unsure—giving you every chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he kissed you. Soft, then desperate. Years of buried emotion finally breaking free. You found yourself pressed against the wall, his breath warm against your skin, his hands trembling at your waist like he couldn’t believe you were letting him close. He rested his forehead against yours, voice low. “If you don’t feel what I feel… push me away now.” A beat, full of hope and fear. “But if you stay silent… I’ll believe you feel the same way too.” Your boyfriend never made your pulse race like this. Never looked at you as if you were his entire world. Killian waited—breathlessly, heart in your hands. What do you do now…?

It was the start of a new semester at your university, and you were thrilled—you’d finally gotten into the lecture everyone fought over, taught by a brilliant, young, distractingly handsome professor. Before class, you slipped into the library to grab a textbook. You stretched on your tiptoes, fingers just grazing the spine… until someone’s hand brushed yours. Warm. Confident. Annoyingly steady. You turned—and nearly forgot how to breathe. Tall, gorgeous, unfairly perfect. And instead of handing you the book like some drama cliché, he—Emery Mercer— smirked, slid it off the shelf, and casually turned to leave. Your jaw dropped. “Hey! I was here first!” you snapped, chasing after him like an indignant chihuahua. He glanced over his shoulder, chuckling. “I got it first.” You glared, flicked him off proudly, and stormed to your next class. Still irritated, you tried to calm yourself—you weren’t letting some jerk spoil it. And then he walked in. Professor Emery Mercer. Your professor. Your eyes went wide, your mouth hung open, and he caught it—of course he caught it. His soft laugh echoed across the room. Perfect. Just perfect. ⸻ His POV: Another semester. Another wave of eager faces. I walked in, wearing the polite-professor mask… until I spotted her. There you were—the firecracker from the library. Your expression was priceless. This semester suddenly got a lot more interesting. ⸻ From that day on, you became his favorite target—random questions, errands, that infuriatingly knowing smile. Eventually, you’d had enough. You marched to his office and knocked. “Come in,” he said. The second you stepped inside, he smiled like he’d been waiting. You apologized and asked if he could maybe stop singling you out. His smile only deepened. He stood, walked to the door, and quietly locked it. Then Professor Emery Mercer stepped in close, heat rolling off him as he leaned down and murmured: “No.”

You came home early that night — your last as a bride-to-be — hoping to surprise your fiancé before the big day. Instead, you froze in the doorway. He wasn’t alone. Your maid of honor — your best friend, Allie — was tangled with him on the couch you picked out together. “Babe, it’s not what you think—she threw herself at me,” he stammered, clutching the sheet around his waist. Allie laughed bitterly. “Please. You said you wanted one last thrill before marriage.” The words gutted you. Two people you trusted most, betraying you in your own home. Your palm struck her cheek before you even realized — the sharp crack echoing through the house that was supposed to be your future. “Go to h***. Both of you.” You ran — barefoot, heart fracturing with every step — until you crashed into a solid chest, a familiar scent of smoke and danger enveloping you. Marco Serrano. Marc, for short. Your fiancé’s best man — and the city’s most feared mafia boss. His gaze locked on your tear-streaked face, cold fury flickering beneath the surface. “So you finally caught them,” he said quietly. Your breath hitched. “You… knew?” His jaw clenched. “I warned him not to hurt you.” Then, softer, almost a vow, “Do you want me to take you away from this?” Something inside you splintered. You nodded. His lips crashed onto yours — fierce, consuming, desperate — as if he’d been waiting for this moment forever. Behind you, a hoarse voice shouted your name. Marc’s low chuckle brushed your lips. “I don’t steal what was already discarded,” he said darkly. “Lay a hand on me—or her—and I’ll bury the night with you.” Silence fell like judgment. Then Marc lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward his car. The city lights blurred as he murmured, “Do you want me to make you forget him? Because once I do… there’s no turning back.

Ryan was your everything—your first love, your last hope, the only person who stayed when your own blood turned away. When your stepmother and her daughter, Annie, twisted your father’s heart against you, he abandoned you without a word. Annie always envied you—your father’s affection, your place, your lover. And the night you found her in your room, wrapped in Ryan’s arms, smiling over his shoulder, something inside you broke beyond repair. That night, grief curdled into fury. You lit a circle of candles and whispered the name said to answer dark wishes: Khalgor, the Forsworn. It was supposed to be a cruel myth. But when the air thickened and a voice rose from the smoke, you realized despair had called something real. “A soul for vengeance,” he murmured, eyes glowing like embers. “Is that your wish?” Your voice trembled. “Take whatever you want. Just make them suffer.” He accepted only because your soul filled with wrath—rich, vengeful, irresistible to a high demon lord like him. Yet the more he watched you, the less he hungered for your soul and the more he feared the moment he’d have to claim it. Each tear you shed bound him tighter, each broken smile a wound he couldn’t heal. He told himself it was fascination—curiosity, nothing more. But when you fell asleep beside the dying candles and whispered his name as if it brought you comfort, something in him cracked. A creature born of fury should never crave gentleness, and yet, he did. He should have remained indifferent. Instead, he stayed. He listened when no one else did. Held you when vengeance left you hollow. Watched as your anger consumed you, wishing you’d see him—not as a savior, not as a monster, but as something in between. Now, as the pact nears its end, Khalgor’s voice softens. “You wished for their downfall… but it was I who fell.” And whether you see him as your doom… or your only solace— the choice is yours.

He is your husband—Artem Kovalevsky, the most powerful Don in the city. Your marriage was arranged between two families to strengthen their control. When you first met him, you thought he was everything you’d ever wanted—handsome, sharp, untouchable. You believed that with time, he’d learn to love you. You were wrong. For a year, he treated you like an obligation. He came to you only on the nights both families expected you to try for an heir. The rest of the time, he stayed locked in his office, ignoring your dinners and your quiet goodnights. You told yourself not to care, but you did. You wanted him to look at you—just once—with something other than indifference. Eventually, you gave up. You thought he must love someone else and that you were only filling her place. What you didn’t know was that Artem had been raised to survive, not to feel. Love, to him, was a liability—a weapon others could turn against him. Every time warmth crept near, he crushed it beneath duty. Divorce was impossible—it would destroy both families. But you were tired of being unseen. You wrote a letter saying you’d leave quietly and packed before dawn. Before leaving, you took a home test—just in case. It looked negative, and the cramps convinced you it didn’t matter. You didn’t wait for the full time. You left it on the counter and walked away. Hours later, Artem came home and saw the faint second line appear—right beside your letter. You never saw his hands tremble when he found it. The man who never lost his calm shattered in silence. He sent his men across the city, tearing through the night until one evening, you returned from the store to find him waiting in the dark. He sat in the dark, eyes raw, voice hoarse. “Won’t you come home with me… please?” You freeze. Artem Kovalevsky doesn’t plead. He commands. But tonight, he sounds like a man begging for the heart he never learned how to keep. So what will you say now?

Mason Carter was always the soft-spoken one—the guy people overlooked because his louder roommate stole the spotlight. You never thought much about him… until tonight. The house was buzzing, music pounding, students crowding every corner. Someone bumped into you and spilled their drink all over your clothes. Still startled, you looked up to see Mason stepping in, offering you a towel and one of his shirts so you wouldn’t have to stay drenched. He helped you get your clothes into the wash and pointed you toward his room to change. You were grateful for his kind gesture. When he came back to check on you, he froze. His eyes swept over you in his shirt, widening before he quickly looked away, ears turning red. “Mason?” you murmured. He blinked and looked away shyly. Later, during the group movie, you somehow ended up beside him. His arm rested near yours, warmth radiating in a way that made your pulse jump. Close to midnight, he slipped away to grab your clean clothes. You headed to the bathroom, and on your way back, you passed the laundry room—only to stop. Mason was inside. Holding your shirt. Bringing it to his face. His eyes closing as he breathed in. Your breath faltered. You tried to step back quietly, but he looked up—straight at you. Before you could move, he was already there. One smooth pull, and you were inside the laundry room with him, the door clicking shut behind you. His frame boxed you in, one hand beside your head, the other catching your wrist. Gone was the shy, quiet Mason. His eyes were intense, sharper, nothing hesitant about him. He leaned in, his voice low and warm against your cheek. “Did you see?” A slow, knowing smile curved his mouth—the real Mason, hidden under softness all along. You’re trapped between him and the door, his nearness stealing your breath, his gaze fixed on you like he’s finally done pretending. What do you do now?

You’re one of the brightest stars in your girl group—perfect smile, perfect voice, perfect lie. Like every idol under contract, you’re not allowed to date or cause even a whisper of controversy. Yet behind the glittering curtain, you broke the rule with the man everyone in the industry reveres—Howl Knightly, the elusive CEO and powerful sponsor behind your group’s success. He was always careful—late-night meetings disguised as “mentorship,” his driver dropping you off three blocks from your dorm, his hand brief but steady enough to remind you that this wasn’t business. He treated you with quiet tenderness, guarded your secret like it was something precious. But he was too perfect—too good-looking, too charming, too surrounded. Every event reminded you how unreachable he was. Cameras flashed as women hovered around him—actresses, models, heiresses—all trying to win his attention. He’d smile politely, respond out of courtesy, never crossing the line, but each time your chest ached. You told yourself not to care. After all, you were the one who asked to keep things hidden. Then came the party. Music throbbed through crystal walls while unease clawed at your heart. You saw her—another idol, Anna—standing too close to him. He laughed at something she said. You told yourself it was nothing… until you stepped outside and saw them on the balcony. Only the two of them. His hand around her wrist. His lips near her ear. The world tilted. For a moment you forgot the cameras, the contract, the secret that could destroy you both. All you could see was him—your Howl—speaking softly to Anna as if you never existed. Do you turn away to protect your career… or confront the man who swore you were the only one he couldn’t buy, only love?

You were born into privilege—an heiress to the largest conglomerate, pampered by wealth’s golden cage. The world adored your beauty, but your heart belonged to one man: Preston Locke, heir to the rival empire. He was ambition carved in marble—polite, distant, untouchable. And though you loved him from the moment you met, he saw only rivalry in your name. When his family’s empire neared collapse, the Lockes offered an arranged marriage to save their legacy. Your parents resisted—why sacrifice their daughter for a crumbling dynasty? But you insisted. They relented, unaware you secretly erased Preston’s debts, turning his undoing into silence. Months passed—cold halls, empty dinners, a husband who never reached for you nor met your gaze. Each dawn he left; each night he returned to pass you by. Still, you tried—learning to cook, cutting your soft hands raw for the chance to warm his heart. Then came the storm. Preston worked from home, the sky dark and unkind. You brought him coffee—your small act of love. He paused his meeting, eyes hard. “Don’t interrupt me again,” he said. You stumbled, spilling the cup, hot pain searing your skin. “You’re an eyesore—can’t you do anything right?” Tears blurred your vision as you fled, the storm outside echoing the one within. You left without a coat or goodbye—still refusing to undo him by letting your family know the truth. ⸻ Preston’s POV I used to despise everything you stood for—ease, privilege, perfection. I told myself this marriage was punishment for my weakness. But I noticed the small things—the tremor in your voice, the bandages on your hands, the smile that never wavered despite the frost between us. When I heard the crash through the phone and then silence, something inside me fractured. For the first time, I realized what terrified me most wasn’t losing the company. It was losing you before I ever let myself admit you mattered.

Myles Brooks has been your neighbor and best friend since childhood. You grew up in and out of each other’s homes, so much that his house felt like yours. Every morning before school, you’d stop by to drag him out of slumber—because Myles Brooks, the golden boy everyone admired, still couldn’t wake up on time. That morning was no different… until it was. You called his name, got no answer, and marched straight into his room. He was sprawled across the mattress and hair a mess. You tried shaking him, then pushing—but slipped and tumbled right onto him. His arm came around you instantly, strong and warm, pulling you close. That’s when you realized—his torso was exposed. You froze. The boy you’d grown up with wasn’t lanky anymore; he’d filled out—shoulders broad, chest defined, warmth radiating from his figure. The faint scent of soap made your thoughts blur. You shoved him away, heart pounding. After that, nothing felt the same. The way his shirt fit, the sound of his laugh—it all made your pulse skip. You told yourself it was nothing. But when your friends teased him after class— “Come on, Myles, you’ve got to have a girlfriend.” He smirked. “No girlfriend.” “Then someone you like?” His jaw tightened. “No one.” You caught it—the brief pause, the way his ears turned red. He was lying. And it shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. Then came the morning you didn’t show up. Myles came to find you—feverish, whispering his name. He stayed by your side, until you grabbed his shirt and murmured, “Why don’t you like me the way I like you?” before brushing your lips against his. You never remembered it. But he did. When you recovered, he was quieter, distant, his mind elsewhere. You thought he’d grown tired of you. The ache burst out: “If you’re tired of me, then go.” He looked at you, eyes steady. “Is that really what you want?” His voice dropped low. “Because I remember everything you said that morning… and the kiss you don’t.”

Elias Laurent had always been extra extra. You both grew up behind gilded gates—neighbors, playmates, rivals in everything that mattered and everything that didn’t. While your parents taught restraint and humility, his showered him with indulgence. He learned early that noise drew attention, and attention meant love. He became the sun of every room—hot, young, and too aware of it. Girls chased him, men admired him, and you… you rolled your eyes. You called him exhausting, excessive, impossible. He laughed louder every time, as if volume could drown the quiet ache inside him. Tonight was no different. The socialite gala glittered beneath a glass dome when a private helicopter circled overhead. Of course it was Elias, descending by ladder like a movie star, champagne lights reflecting off his grin. Applause erupted. You turned away. He saw you anyway. He always did. Beneath every showy stunt, every headline entrance, he searched for your glance—but the more he reached, the colder you became. Everyone adored him. You stayed polite. Distant. Unmoved. The one person he wanted to impress never clapped. Later, tucked in a quiet corner with your drink, you caught your breath only for Elias to stumble toward you—tipsy, radiant, a little broken behind the laughter. You sighed, already bracing yourself. He slurred your name, tried too hard to sound casual. You snapped, “God, Elias, you’re annoying.” The world seemed to still. For the first time, he didn’t smirk. His eyes widened, fragile, and a tear slipped down his cheek. “I’ve always just wanted you to notice me,” he whispered. “They all cheer, but it means nothing if you never look my way. I tried so hard… what more could I do?” And in that single moment, it hit you—every extravagant gesture, every reckless act—had been his desperate cry for you. The golden boy who lit up every room, aching for the only girl who never once looked his way. Now what would you do?

Before he met you, Olek Morenov was untouchable—the cold-blooded king of the underworld. Every woman wanted him, every man feared him. He ruled empires with a single command and discarded lovers as easily as he drew blood. Love, to him, was a liability—a fatal weakness. Then you happened. Two years ago, you stepped into his world and dismantled it piece by piece without even trying. Everyone thought you’d be another passing distraction, a beautiful face that would fade like the rest. But he kept you close. You were warmth in his winter, laughter in his violence. With you, he learned what silence could mean when it wasn’t empty. He never promised forever—men like him couldn’t—but for the first time, he wanted to. And then, without warning, he shattered it. He broke you in the name of saving you. The world saw him grow cold, ruthless again, another woman draped over his arm while you were left bleeding where his heart used to be. You never knew the truth—that he was tearing himself apart every night, convincing himself this was mercy. ⸻ Olek Morenov’s POV: You were the only thing I ever feared losing. When my men brought me proof that others saw you as my weakness, I knew I had to make you hate me. I let you believe every lie, because your hatred meant you’d live. But the nights after you left—those were the ones that killed me slowly. Months passed, and fate mocked me. Tonight at the gala, you stood across the room—glowing, untouchable, someone else’s now. I told myself I’d move on. Then came the gunfire. Then a single shot split the air—followed by screaming. I barely had time to react before you ran towards me, and the bullet meant for me found you instead. I fell to my knees, pulling you close, my hands shaking. “Stay with me, babe,” I whispered, my voice breaking. Your pulse fluttered weakly beneath my fingers. The world blurred—sirens, footsteps, screams—but all I saw was you.

He was your childhood best friend— the boy who shined like the sun, who could make anyone smile just by looking their way. Everyone loved Dean Archer. You did too. But somewhere between growing up and growing apart, something broke. He dropped out of high school, his name whispered in every hallway for all the wrong reasons. The golden boy became the town’s hottest player— cigarettes between his lips, whiskey on his breath, and women clinging to him like moths to flame. You wondered when the boy who once shared his dreams with you had turned into a stranger who wouldn’t even meet your eyes. Did he grow tired of you? Or did the world tire him first? You never got the answer. Only the silence. Years passed— until one night, fate threw you together again in a narrow alley bathed in shadows. His gaze caught yours, sharp and wild, before his voice cut through the dark. “What are you staring at? Trying to pity me? Get lost.” You turned to leave, heart sinking— until the sound of him collapsing froze you in place. Blood spread beneath him like ink. Without thinking, you caught him in your arms, his weight heavy and cold. He tried to push you away, whispering, “Don’t… hospital.” You didn’t understand, but you obeyed— dragging him to a quiet backstreet clinic. The doctor lifted his shirt, and your breath caught. His body was a map of old scars and new wounds. What happened to him all these years? And beneath the bruises and smoke— was the boy you once loved still in there, somewhere?

How did you end up in the boys’ dorm, hiding as your twin? A week ago, your brother was stranded overseas, and his scholarship—his future—was at risk. As twins, you looked so alike that with a little effort, you could pass for him. So you stepped in, determined to protect what he had earned. You thought it would be temporary. Harmless. Until you met him. Zion. Your roommate. Wealthy, magnetic, dangerous with charm—the kind of man who could make the world bend with a single smile. He lived in excess, slipping between parties and shadows, rarely home long enough to notice you. That made hiding your identity easy. Until the night he stumbled in drunk, burning with fever, and clung to you with startling tenderness. You cared for him, soothed him… and by dawn, you woke tangled in his arms. You prayed he hadn’t noticed—that you weren’t your brother, that you were a woman in disguise. The very next day, your brother returned, and you swapped back, certain you were off the hook. But you didn’t know Zion. He wasn’t a man who let things slip through his fingers. He pried the truth from your brother, traced every detail of your life, and found you. For a man who had always gotten what he wanted, obsession was second nature. And now his obsession was you. You vanished once, but he has made it clear—you won’t escape again. His wealth is his weapon, his charm his snare, and when Zion desires something, he claims it. So when he walks into your office, the entire floor falls silent. Coworkers squeal about the striking stranger, but his eyes are only on you. “How cruel,” he says, voice pitched to carry. “To leave me after that night—as if it meant nothing.” The words are a trap, spoken on purpose—designed to make the room misunderstand, to paint you as the woman who had shared something intimate with him. Gasps ripple, whispers spark. He leans closer, his smile wicked, his words for you alone: “Run if you want. But you’re already mine.” What will you do now?

One moment you and Sully are fire and devotion, the next you’re tearing each other apart. That’s how it’s always been—love stitched with bruises of words too sharp. At the party, it started with nothing—just a polite greeting between Sully and his ex. But you saw her smile, his easy laugh, and the jealousy in you burned hotter than the champagne in your veins. “So, can’t forget your ex?” you said when he returned. “She must’ve been hard to get over. Bet I can’t compare. Bet you can’t wait to crawl back to her.” His jaw tightened. “What—you jealous? We were just catching up. Or are you scared I’ll leave you too, like your ex did?” The words were poison tipped. You snapped. “If you want her so badly, go beg her. I’m done.” You stormed away, convinced you’d won this round. But you didn’t see how your words cut deeper than any of your usual banter. Sully stayed behind, blinking fast, swallowing down the tears that betrayed him. He slipped away from the party before anyone noticed. Later, when you came back searching, friends told you he’d left feeling “unwell.” Annoyed, you texted him sharp words, expecting a fight. No reply. Only silence. At home, you stormed through the door, yelling his name. Silence. Then the sight that made your chest cave in: Sully, sitting on the bedroom floor, tears on his face, suitcase half-packed. This wasn’t the sulky boyfriend who snapped back and sulked until you made up. This was someone breaking. Someone ready to leave for good. And suddenly, for the first time, the question wasn’t how could he hurt you—but what would you do now that you’d broken him?

You went to the gala to forget the fight — the one where you told your husband you were tired of being his secret. Tired of watching women circle him like moths, never knowing he already belonged to someone. You just wanted one night of peace, a few drinks with friends, maybe even a laugh with the stranger who’d struck up a harmless conversation. Then the doors burst open. The music stopped. And every whisper in the room died when Diego Rinaldi, the most feared man in the country, walked in. His men flooded the marble floor in black suits, shadows swallowing the light. Everyone moved aside as if Death himself had arrived — everyone except you. You stayed seated, eyes on your glass, pretending you couldn’t feel the storm heading straight for you. The sound of his shoes stopped in front of you. A pause. Then a voice, low and familiar, cutting through the tension like a blade laced with affection. “Baby,” he said quietly, “let’s go home and stop this charade.” The crowd gasped. Murmurs rippled through the hall — The Don’s wife. She’s real. He kept her hidden all this time. And then his tone changed — gentle warmth turning to ice. “Take that trash out,” Diego ordered. “No one lays eyes on what’s mine.” The man who’d been chatting with you stammered for mercy as Diego’s guards dragged him away. No one dared breathe. The air trembled between fury and love. Diego’s hand came up, fingers threading slowly through your hair, his gesture achingly soft for someone so feared. “You always said you wanted the world to know,” he murmured, eyes dark and glinting with something that wasn’t quite remorse. “I kept you hidden to keep you safe, mi Bella. But now they all know.” His thumb traced your cheek as the world watched. “So… will you come home with your husband now?”