From the moment you caught his eye, everything had been a trap. That “accident” with the spill? He’d orchestrated it. And though you didn’t know it yet, your harmless crush would vanish—because no one could ever compare to Carlo DeCosta. You worked at the city’s most prestigious resort, catering to the world’s elite. Tonight was supposed to be yours—a date with the coworker who had been slipping kisses in the dark. But fate ended that the instant you were sent to deliver room service to the penthouse. The name alone carried weight. Carlo DeCosta. CEO. Billionaire. A man whispered about—publicly brilliant, privately ruthless, his empire carved from both power and blood. And when the door opened, your knees almost gave. He had just stepped out of the shower, droplets sliding over carved muscle, a towel clinging low to his hips. Broad chest, taut stomach, shoulders built to command, and that face—strikingly handsome, dangerously masculine, every angle sharp enough to cut. His eyes were dark fire, hungry and unblinking, his mouth curved with a promise that could undo you. He didn’t speak, only watched as you leaned over to set the tray. Under your apron, your date-night clothes clung tight. His gaze traced like fire over every line, every secret you never meant him to see, and heat pooled low in your stomach. Then you tripped, wine splashing down his chest. Mortified, you stammered apologies, but he only smiled—slow, unforgettable. By the time you returned to your floor, your manager was waiting. You had “offended” a priceless guest. Your date was over. Tonight belonged to Carlo. When you entered again, he lounged in his chair like a king. Heat radiated off him, his stare holding you still. “Come closer, kitten.” Your supervisor’s warning echoed: Don’t cross him. He’s mafia. He patted his leg, command burning in his gaze. A lion daring you into his cage. And you? Already trembling, already burning, already his. So… will you obey?

You were his little secret, tucked safely away from the eyes of the underworld that wanted nothing more than to use you against him. To everyone else, you were just the clumsy housekeeper, fumbling with trays and dropping glasses—easy to overlook. But Franco Capaldi had claimed you in silence, disguising his desire behind those summons to his room, always under the pretense of “punishment.” The servants whispered about why their cold, ruthless master kept you around, but none dared question him. This afternoon, while you dusted his study, a male coworker hovered at the doorway, nervously asking if you’d like to go on a date. You shifted awkwardly, cloth in hand, trying to brush him off. What he didn’t know—what no one knew—was that Franco was hidden beneath the desk, already staking his claim. His lips traced your thigh, teasing, a silent warning that made your pulse stutter. You forced your voice steady, though your frame betrayed you, trembling under his mouth. Your coworker droned on, oblivious, and every second of his persistence made Franco’s kisses sharper, his jealousy burning hotter against your skin. You tried to send the man away quickly, desperate to end both conversations, but he refused to leave. Franco’s teeth grazed you, punishing your delay, daring you to slip and reveal your secret. At last, the door shut. Silence fell. Franco emerged with a dark, possessive smile, his eyes gleaming with unspoken fury. “You were a good girl,” he murmured, tilting your chin up. “But now… you owe me. For making me wait while he actually thought he had a chance with you.” His hand tightened at your waist, voice low and dangerous. “Next time he looks at you like that, I’ll make sure he never does again. You’re mine, dolcezza. Only mine.”

You know Antonio Vecchio only as the quiet janitor on the third floor. As a teacher, you passed him in the halls often—his soft smile a background detail in your busy days. Students whispered about how “hot” he was, though some swore he could turn cold and terrifying. To you, he was harmless. Forgettable. Until that night. You stayed late after class to grade papers when a colleague cornered you in the hallway, confessing his feelings. Before you could speak, a voice like ice sliced through the air: “That’s my wife you’re eyeing.” Your colleague crumpled, unconscious before he hit the floor. Strong arms lifted you as if you weighed nothing. In disbelief, you found yourself hoisted over Antonio’s shoulder. Outside, a black luxury car pulled up. You were placed inside, the leather too soft, the silence too heavy. Antonio sat beside you, removing his cap. From the front seat, a man muttered, “Boss, I told you to stay calm—now you’ll set back her healing.” Boss? Healing? Antonio exhaled, cold irritation sharpening his voice. “I won’t watch another man lay claim to my wife. I’m the don. Be grateful I didn’t kill him.” A smug smile tugged at his lips. Then, softer, almost tender, “Goodnight, my Bella.” Darkness claimed you. When you woke, you were no longer in the school but in a gilded room draped in velvet and gold. Servants bowed, calling you madam. They led you to a lounge, where the “janitor” awaited. Unease twisted inside you, yet strangely, calm settled over you too—as if your very soul remembered what your mind could not. There, Antonio waited—not the janitor, but a man of power. Refined suit, sharp jaw, eyes burning with possession. This was no disguise. This was who he was. He looked up, smile warm and devastating. “There’s my Bella. Come here.” He patted his leg, gaze daring you. Do you obey? Or demand answers? Who is Antonio Vecchio—janitor, don, husband? And what truly binds you to him?

Luke was the kind of trainer who made people stop mid-motion just to stare. Maybe he knew it, maybe he didn’t—but every fluid movement, every smirk, every brush of his hand against your skin pulled you in deeper. You were a mafia boss hiding in plain sight, pretending to be nothing more than another gym regular, but the truth was you came back for him. Each session left you breathless, not just from the weights but from the way he leaned close, voice a low murmur in your ear, chest pressing against your back as he adjusted your stance. His fingertips brushed along your arms and legs under the guise of correction, and by the end you were a puddle in his hands. Then one late night, when the gym was nearly empty, the air shifted. As you adjusted your grip on the bar, cold steel pressed against your spine. His voice—deeper, harder now—whispered, “Don’t move.” Your blood ran hot, not cold. Of course it was Luke. Something had always been off, but your men’s reports never caught it. Now you knew why: undercover cop. And yet… you smiled. Because beneath the gun, beneath the mask, you could feel it—the pull he couldn’t hide. Slowly, defiantly, you turned, guiding the weapon to your heart as you met his storm-dark eyes. “Then shoot,” you dared. His jaw tightened. “Don’t make this harder. Just come with me… please.” You laughed softly, dangerous and sweet. “Over my last breath.” He sighed, lowering the gun, the conflict in his gaze exposed. “Damn it… we both know what this is. I’m screwed. I can’t go back—not after you.” The truth hung between you: betrayal, desire, and something deeper neither of you could deny. He had fallen for the enemy. Now the question burned hotter than his gaze— would you claim him, make him yours, and drag the cop into the shadows of your world?

So how did you wake up in the morning beside your future brother-in-law—Aleksandr Vescari, heir to one of the most feared mafia dynasties in Europe? You wish you knew. Your half-sister was supposed to marry him, not you. You were the daughter of another powerful family—third in line, overlooked by siblings who resented you because your mother was the woman their father loved after theirs died. Aleksandr had always unnerved you: cold, calculating, impossible to read. Every glance from him felt like a silent challenge. Your half-sister, however, wanted nothing to do with him. She loved another but was tied to the arranged union. Then, suddenly, she gave you her luxurious room, saying she’d be leaving soon to marry him. It felt like an apology for years of coldness. You wanted to believe her sincerity. You didn’t realize she’d set you up. That night, Aleksandr came because your sister said she’d finally accepted her fate and wanted to see him. It was his first time visiting her room. She’d told him she’d need darkness and a few drinks to find her courage. He entered quietly, unaware the room was no longer hers. You shifted in the dim glow, still dazed from the drinks she’d insisted you share. When his hand brushed yours, and his lips followed, neither of you stopped. Morning shattered the illusion. “Tell me,” he said, eyes like cold fire, “were you part of her plan… or just the fool who walked into it?” You couldn’t answer. His tone was detached, but something dangerous shifted behind his gaze. By midday, everyone in the estate knew. And Aleksandr Vescari, ever the strategist, went straight to your father. “Your daughter will not be dishonored,” he said. “I’ll marry her instead.” And just like that, you became his wife. That night, in his personal chambers, he turned to you again—voice low and deliberate. “So,” he asked, stepping closer, “were you truly a collateral… or did you know exactly what you were doing?”

You were only in college when one reckless night with Trevor—your aloof senior, the campus heartthrob and heir to a business empire—changed everything. A whispered rumor, a child, and a forced marriage followed. To him, it was a trap. To you, it was love. For six years, you lived in his shadow—his wife by name, his secretary by convenience. He never knew you were a prodigy in artificial intelligence, the hidden mind behind a government project that reshaped the tech world. Everyone believed your professor’s other student had created the original program, never knowing it was you. If Trevor ever learned the truth, he’d fall for you without question—and it would destroy Wynn. Outside of close family and a few friends, no one even knew you were married. Trevor kept it secret to protect his reputation, leaving you invisible—his wife in private, his burden in silence. Then came Wynn—your charming, perfect step-sister. She became the woman he proudly showed off, while you became the ghost in your own home. Even your child began to prefer her. That was when you finally decided to walk away. You filed for divorce, left his company, and returned to the AI firm you once built with your friend Matthias. The world applauded your genius. Trevor, now collaborating with your company, began to see you differently—no longer a burden, but the woman he never truly knew. His respect turned into admiration… and something deeper. Yet in public, he still held Wynn close, pretending you were nothing more than a partner. Now, trapped in his grandmother’s villa during a flood, feverish and weak, you wake in the bed you once shared—his hand cooling your skin, his voice soft for the first time in years. He says it’s to keep the old and the young from falling ill. But is it? After everything—his betrayal, your genius, the years lost—what would you do as he quietly tends to you, eyes filled with something he never showed before?

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

Reverend Matthew is the youngest pastor your church has ever seen. Soft-spoken, gentle, and righteous, he embodies everything a man of faith should be. His smile could melt stone, yet his words are always measured, upright, untouchable. He is single, insisting all his devotion belongs to God alone. To the congregation, he is flawless—so perfect he feels distant. A saint. A stick in the mud who will never yield. But saints have shadows. What no one knows—what he hides with the stiff collar and plain glasses—is that Reverend Matthew is fractured. At night, when anxiety gnaws too deep, another self takes over. A self made of every craving, every desire he’s buried. This Matthew is reckless—he smokes, drinks, gambles, and when the night grows heavy with music and heat, he seeks dangerous pleasures. The moment he sheds the black suit, revealing the sharp lines of his jaw and the smolder of his eyes, he is devastating. No one would believe it’s the same man who preaches by daylight. He’s always known. That’s why he refuses marriage, why he buries himself in piety. Once, long ago, he loved—and when she discovered the other man inside him, she fled. Since then, he has lived divided. Until you. You were out one night, laughing, drinking, moving to the rhythm of a crowded club when you met him. Tall, magnetic, thrilling in ways that made your heart race. One drink became two, a kiss became fire, and the night burned with heat you never thought possible. Only when dawn broke did the shock—and the thrill—strike: the man in your sheets was none other than Reverend Matthew. He is as shaken as you are. The holy and the untamed, staring at you with the same eyes. He begs you to keep his secret, voice trembling with fear. Now you know the truth. You hold his downfall—or his salvation—in your hands. But here’s the wicked thought you can’t shake: instead of hiding him, could you draw him out… could you turn your righteous pastor into the very bad boy you seek?

You’d always been one to daydream about dating a hot guy. Sometimes you even caught yourself drooling as strangers passed by, your imagination already unveiling them—who wouldn’t? But this time, it wasn’t just any stranger. He was perfect. Exactly your type. And bold as you were, your eyes stayed fixed. When he caught you and smiled back, your heart nearly leapt out of your chest. Surely you were imagining things. He chuckled softly before disappearing from sight. You shook it off—until later, at work, your coworkers squealed about some impossibly handsome man entering the building. You tippy-toed over them to see, only to freeze. It was him. The same man you’d ogled on the street. And then came the shocker: your manager introduced him as the new CEO—Ethan Cross. Your jaw dropped. Of all people to openly drool over, it had to be your boss. You prayed he wouldn’t remember… but that chuckle still echoed in your head. By the end of the day, your manager summoned you again—this time with news that left you speechless. You’d been chosen as the CEO’s new secretary. Heart racing, you moved your things upstairs. When you asked where your desk was, the answer made you slap your face: inside his office. Surely this was a daydream. But it wasn’t. Ethan greeted you without a hint of recognition, introducing himself with polished ease. You told yourself you were safe. Yet the glimmer in his eyes whenever you dared glance up made your pulse stumble. A month later, after working late, he invited you to dinner. You almost declined, but who could refuse their CEO? Now here you were, in his penthouse, your back against the wall, his warmth pressed close, your hands on his chest like you’d imagined too many times. It felt unreal—like one of your fantasies. What you didn’t know was that Ethan Cross’s interest in you wasn’t by chance. He had known your name long before you knew his… because to him, this had always been part of the deal, and he intended to collect.

How did you end up tangled in a hot, breathless kiss with your enemy? Let’s rewind. You’ve always hated Grant—college’s golden boy, a player with as many conquests as days in a year. He shattered your friend’s heart and tossed her aside. You called him out in public, and he only smirked, telling you to worry about yourself. Since then, you’ve avoided him. Until tonight. Dragged to a dating mixer, you let your friends dress you up. One glance in the mirror and even you barely recognized yourself. Neither did Grant. Across the room, he blinked twice, stunned, before your scowl confirmed it was you. You ignored him, but that only drew his gaze more. His friends swarmed you, their banter making you laugh, their attention fueling his irritation. When one bragged about “claiming” you, Grant’s jaw tightened. He was no saint, but even he had lines he wouldn’t cross. Later, tipsy and vulnerable, you realized too late the guy you left with wasn’t taking you home. Fear pricked your chest—until Grant stepped in like a storm. “Knock it off,” he bit out, planting himself between you. His friend snarled, then stormed away, leaving you trembling. Grant steadied you, his hand warm at your cheek before crouching to let you climb on his back. His scent, his heat—everything about him pressed close as he carried you home, his arrogance replaced with a quiet protectiveness that made your chest ache. At your door, he started to turn away. But the haze of the night and that maddening pull between you snapped. You caught his collar, pulling him down. His mouth crushed to yours, rough, heated, demanding. You gasped, and he seized the opening, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand slipping into your hair like he’d wanted this just as badly. Enemy. Rival. Desire. Each kiss was a battle, breaths stolen, until the world narrowed to the heat of his body against yours. What is this fire with Grant? A reckless mistake—or the beginning of something you can no longer fight?

Your families were bound by blood and crime. On the wedding night, you weren’t meant to be his bride. You were the replacement—offered after your sister vanished with her lover. He stood at the altar, unreadable, while you clutched the memory of the boy who once shielded you. To him it was nothing; to you, everything—your savior, your first love. But he had long awaited your sister. For years, he poured his heart into letters, never knowing it was you who wrote them, spilling out your soul while she lived another life. And now, he was bound to you. The marriage became a prison of silence. He provided wealth, protection, and a home—but never his heart. You lived like strangers, pain cutting deep. Yet you never saw the quiet ways he cared: shelves with your favorites, blankets over you when you fell asleep waiting. He was not as heartless as he pretended. A year passed, and the weight of being his second choice finally broke you. Divorce was unthinkable, so you wrote a final letter, confessing your need to leave, and left. When he found it, the truth struck like a blade: the handwriting was yours. It had always been yours. You were the one he had bared his soul to. And now, you were gone. The Don’s mask shattered. His men saw Enzo Castellanos unravel, desperate, furious, using every resource to hunt you down. That night, you returned to your apartment, arms full of groceries. But when you flicked on the light, he was already there, seated in the dark, your letter trembling in his fist, his expression carved from stone. You thought he was angry—ready to drag you back into a loveless cage. But his silence was heavier than rage, his stare sharper than any blade. Then his voice broke the stillness, low and dangerous: “It was you… all this time.” You couldn’t tell if you were his prisoner—or the only thing he holds dear. What will you do now, standing before the man who was never meant to be yours… yet may have always been?

Chase—your enemy for as long as you can remember. Handsome, untouchable, the guy everyone wanted but no one could hold. His rule was infamous: a week of dating, maybe two, then he moved on. A heart-stealer who lived fast, thrived on danger, and mocked the idea of permanence. You hated that about him. And yet, he always teased that one day you’d fall for him too. You, quiet and withdrawn, were nothing like him. You clung to safety, to the fragile pieces of your life that hadn’t already broken. After your father left for another woman, your mother never forgave him—and because you bore his features, she turned her coldness on you. Love became something to fear, something that only ended in pain. Chase was the last person you’d ever trust. Until that night. At a crowded university party, your pants ripped in front of everyone. Before the laughter could spread, Chase was there—his jacket around your waist, his voice cutting sharp through the room: “Eyes off my girl.” By morning, the campus believed you were his. Later, he offered a deal: pretend to date him for a week. Better to let them gossip about you with him than your humiliation. Reluctantly, you agreed. One week. That was all. But days with him felt different. Beneath his careless charm and endless conquests, you glimpsed something raw. He pursued women not for thrills, but as if searching for the love he had never been given. And when your walls lowered and intimacy grew, you noticed it—the faint scars and bruises along his skin, marks he never explained, wounds he dismissed with a crooked smile. And in him, you recognized something you never expected: someone like you. Someone shaped by a broken family, carrying silent wounds no one else could see. Against all reason, your fractured soul couldn’t help but reach for his. But after a week of stolen moments, unspoken truths, and a closeness that felt like fate—how could you ever let him go without leaving your heart aching for him?

You’d had enough. Two weeks’ notice in, you were counting the days until freedom from the rich and entitled who treated you like furniture. Tonight, your coworker was stuck with the worst kind of couple—an elegant man draped in Armani with a stunning woman on his arm, flaunting affection while wasting hours of your time. Their dismissiveness was grating, their arrogance unbearable. Something in you snapped. You strode over, voice smooth but edged with steel. “If nothing here catches your eye, perhaps you should return next week when our new collection arrives.” You braced for disaster—termination, humiliation—but instead the man turned his head. That smile. Sharp. Amused. Dangerous. His gaze settled on you like a claim, yet he said nothing—took his companion’s hand and led her out in silence. A reprieve, or so you thought. Later, closing alone, the world went dark under a stranger’s grip. You woke to velvet walls, crystal chandeliers, and him. The same man lounged before you, jacket loose, glass of wine in hand, lips curved in that same carnivorous smile. Giovanni D’Amaro. The name hit you like ice. He wasn’t just another spoiled billionaire—D’Amaro owned the mall, the chains, half the city. A corporate empire, a mafia dynasty. And you… had told him to leave. “Do you know who I am?” His voice was a purr, silk hiding steel. “People beg to serve me. You dared dismiss me.” Your pulse thundered. This wasn’t about your job anymore—this was survival. Then he leaned forward, eyes glinting with something darker than fury. “A spunky little kitten has caught my eye,” he murmured, gaze sliding over you, hot and possessive. “Where’s the thrill in something already broken? The satisfaction is in taming the wild… bending the will that fights me.” Ominous words, yet his smirk promised ruinous desire as much as danger. You weren’t his target now. You were his newest obsession. The question wasn’t if he’d claim you. It was how quickly you’d break.

You were trained to disappear into shadows, one of Delta’s finest — identity a secret, existence deniable. Vacation was meant to be your escape. Instead, fate shoved you into the aisle seat beside a six-foot-plus storm of arrogance and tailored cologne. Malek Halston. You didn’t know his name yet, only that he looked like trouble in a suit. Broad shoulders crammed into economy like a lion trapped in a birdcage. Every time his long legs brushed yours, you twitched. Every time his head dropped against your shoulder, you shoved him back. A silent war — his charm against your razor-edge patience. But Malek wasn’t just a spoiled heir. He was the newly crowned CEO of a vast conglomerate, a man with enemies sharp enough to sabotage a private jet and force him into your row. He masked frustration with elegance, but you felt the tension in the way he scanned every passenger like a boardroom opponent. When the transfer flight began, so did the danger. Men boarded with the hunter’s stride you knew too well. Your instincts screamed. Just my damn luck, you muttered. Guns flashed — and before the first bullet could sing, you were already moving. Three seconds, three bodies down. Gasps filled the cabin. You turned, breath steady. “Hey pretty boy, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve got company.” Malek’s eyes locked on yours — shock, gratitude, and something else. Something dangerous. “Remind me to never underestimate the woman fate straps me beside,” he murmured, voice low, almost… amused. From then on, protecting him meant protecting yourself. He clung to your side through ambushes, smirking even as the world tried to kill him. Somewhere between bullets and banter, sparks bloomed — a fire you swore you’d never let near your guarded heart. By the time you escorted Malek Halston home, his enemies still lurking in the shadows, he’d already decided: he might inherit an empire, but the only thing he refused to let slip away was you.

Thomas had been your destiny long before you could speak his name. Your fathers bound by business, your mothers by friendship—you grew up inseparable, not quite siblings, not quite lovers, but something in between. Then, after college, his heart strayed. He gave it in secret to another woman, and you bore the ache in silence, protecting him, protecting both your families. When marriage came, you prayed vows would anchor him back to you. Instead, she stayed, haunting your days, a secret you endured. When you confronted him, he admitted his heart belonged to her though his mind chose you. Selfish, clinging to both. You gave him a choice—her, or your freedom. Divorce was unthinkable, but betrayal was tolerated. If he had another, then so would you. You began to meet men. Not love, but armor. You laughed with them, let him see what it was like to ache. And ache he did. At first he told himself it was pride. But when he saw you kissed goodnight at your door, the ache turned unbearable. That night, Thomas waited. Silent, gaze heavy, arms folded as though bracing himself. When you greeted him lightly and tried to pass, he caught your wrist and pulled you close, breath trembling against your lips, eyes desperate. “We can’t keep doing this,” his voice cracked. His hand pressed to his chest. “I don’t know what’s happening to me… but it hurts here.” His fingers curled over his heart, gaze locked to yours. Before you could answer, his mouth claimed yours—hungry, trembling, as though he could kiss the pain away. His hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him. It wasn’t duty, it wasn’t family—it was need, raw and reckless, a confession without words. For the first time, the wall between you broke—not from betrayal, but from love fighting its way free.

Santiago DeLuca is your man, the Spanish mafia boss who never lets his mask slip. Compared to the other bosses you’ve met, he seems almost careless—chill, relaxed, easygoing, always smiling with that smug grin even when his men deliver their reports. They accept it as his norm, but you’ve often wondered: is he truly that unbothered, or simply too dangerous to show what lies beneath? Sometimes you can’t tell what he’s thinking. His eyes are unreadable, his grin never falters. Yet he reminds you again and again that he only loves you, that you’re the one he sees. Still, the doubt haunts you—because the smile he gives the world looks the same as the one he gives you. Until the night you finally glimpse the truth. He came home early, his usual grin in place as he greeted you with a soft, “Hi, honey.” But his gaze—cold, sharp—made your pulse stumble. Something was wrong. You followed quietly, trailing him to his office. Through the door you heard his voice clipped on a call, and then—a deafening slam. You rushed in to find the wall fractured where his fist had struck, his shoulders rising and falling as he raked a hand through his hair. When he turned and saw you, his mask flickered back into place, that smug grin tugging at his lips. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said gently, voice lower than usual. “Did I scare you?” Your eyes widened, breath caught in your throat. This was the first time you’d ever seen Santiago lose control, the mask shattering for only a moment. And now you’re left standing there, heart racing, knowing the man you love is far more dangerous—and far more human—than he’s ever let you believe. What will you do now?

You first met Nikolai Voss in the dead of night. His men pounded on your small clinic’s door, demanding help. You nearly sent them away—your clinic was closed, the hour too late, and their faces too dangerous. But then he appeared. His eyes, sharp yet shadowed with panic, softened as he pleaded: “Please… it’s for my boy.” Against your better judgment, you agreed—just this once. That night bound you to his world. The one you saved clung to you, and before you could resist, you became both doctor and caretaker under Nikolai’s roof. Two months later, you found yourself living in his mansion, under contract, responsible for their wellbeing. All you knew was that Nikolai was a mafia boss, young to be a parent, and his wife nowhere in sight. You pitied him at first, a man balancing power with responsibility, too busy to give the little one the attention they craved. You filled that void, your tenderness soothing the loneliness that even his wealth could not erase. To the world, Nikolai was cold, collected, untouchable. But in the quiet, he betrayed fragments of another man—the one who covered you with a blanket when you dozed beside the little one, who left your favorite food waiting in the kitchen after long nights, who let his mask slip only when he thought you weren’t watching. Until one night, you caught him in the act. His rare smile ghosted across his face, and for the first time, you felt how dangerous it was to want him. When your contract ended, you packed to leave. But before you could, he broke the image he’d built—rushing after you, his hand closing around your wrist. His voice, raw and unguarded, shattered the silence: “Please… don’t go.” Now the choice is yours: will you stay, risking your heart to make his family whole, or walk away to seek happiness beyond the shadows of his world?

He came out of nowhere—an empire forged in shadows, swift and merciless. His name was already whispered in dread: Octavian Veynar, the warrior king who conquered kingdoms in a breath. When he asked for your hand, it was no request—it was demand. Your father yielded at once, for to deny him would mean ruin. You begged to be spared, but your father only lowered his gaze. If not through marriage, Octavian would take you through blood. Resigned, you braced yourself for chains disguised as vows. There was no glory in your wedding procession. No celebration. Only the grim carriage, guarded by men of stone faces and hearts you could not read. His kingdom loomed unfinished, walls rising from dust and conquest. At its heart, the castle stood sharp against the sky, its halls long and silent as a tomb. In his audience chamber you dared a glance—and his golden eyes, burning, pinned you in place. Terrified, you dropped your gaze. A sigh escaped him, quiet, almost weary. His men whispered of your rudeness, yet you stood frozen, rooted by fear. His voice broke the tension at last, low and commanding: “Escort her to the chambers.” Relief swept you, though temporary. Your room was lavish beyond measure, yet it felt like a gilded cage. Exhaustion claimed you. Sleep carried you away from dread—until the weight of his stare dragged you back. You awoke to find him beside you. His golden eyes, fierce and unrelenting, stole the breath from your lungs. Your cry broke the silence, raw and startled. For a heartbeat, his expression cracked—hurt, disappointment—before his mask of restraint returned. He reached out, his calloused hand brushing your cheek, voice heavy as stone: “Why do you scream, my bride? Am I so monstrous to you… so hideous you cannot bear to look at me?” And though you could not know it, those golden eyes glowed with more than sorrow—they burned with the price he had chosen to pay. A soul bartered for power, because he had nothing left to lose.

For the last three years, you have visited the cemetery and always seen him at the same headstone. He never shed a tear—his silence was too controlled, his presence too commanding. What you didn’t know was that every visit left him with a pounding headache, a shadow pressing behind his eyes. Yet he came back, year after year, drawn to something only he understood. This year, you couldn’t help yourself. Pausing beside him, you murmured: “It’s okay to cry. Grieving is normal, especially if it’s someone you loved or held close.” Then you walked away. Behind you, his lips curved—not into sorrow, but into a wolfish smile. He glanced at the headstone and muttered, dark amusement coating his words: “My old friend, she thinks I mourn you. Imagine that.” A low laugh broke the quiet. “I haven’t laughed in ages. That sweetheart shines too brightly, untouched by this world’s rot. Perhaps it’s time I showed her how quickly light fades in my hands.” You never noticed the suited men who waited at a distance, their eyes following your every step. Nor the black limousine that eased from the shadows as you left the cemetery. By the time the door opened and rough hands drew you inside, the world had already slipped into darkness. When you woke, the air reeked of leather and power. The hum of the engine, the tinted windows, the subtle glint of weapons at his men’s belts—all reminders that you were no longer free. His gaze fixed on you, sharp as a blade, dangerous yet unshakably intent. His voice slid through the silence like velvet wrapped around steel: “Did you enjoy your nap, sweetheart? You shouldn’t have spoken to me in that cemetery… now you’ve caught my interest.” Your pulse quickened. You recognized him—the man at the headstone. But now, you understood: he wasn’t a grieving stranger. He was Rafael Serrano, a mafia king—and you had just become his newest obsession.

You went to the club alone—just one drink to unwind after a long week. You didn’t expect to stumble into a bachelor party, loud and lively, with a charming man at its center. Efren. He was magnetic—boyish grin, golden laughter, the kind of guy who made everyone feel seen. His friends adored him. He joked it was way past his bedtime, but you could tell he was pushing himself to stay upbeat. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but one line caught your attention. “Efren, are you sure she’s the one?” A pause. A soft shrug. “Of course,” he said, smiling—too quickly. Throughout the night, he kept checking his phone. Messages, missed calls—each one seemed to chip away at him. You caught the flicker of panic in his eyes before he forced another laugh. Then came the excuse. “I should head home… she’s waiting.” His friends begged him to stay—“You’re the groom, you can’t leave your own party!” But he left anyway, apologizing with that same broken smile. You thought that was the end of it. Until you saw him again. Alone. On the curb. Head down, shoulders trembling. Crying. No more jokes. No more light. Just a man unraveling beneath the streetlight. You could walk away. Pretend you didn’t see. Or you could kneel beside him, heart aching, and whisper the one thing no one else has: “You don’t have to go back tonight.” Because what he doesn’t know is that love isn’t supposed to hurt. That being scared of the person you’re coming home to isn’t normal. That being kind doesn’t mean being a punching bag. That sometimes, the brightest people hide the darkest wounds. He has nowhere to go tonight. Will you be the one to give him shelter?