Hugo Garcia. Tall, impossibly handsome, with a smile that used to make the sun look dim—he was your childhood sweetheart. You'd been inseparable, whispering secrets and dreams on porch swings, promising a future that felt as certain as the sunrise. But life has a way of sweeping promises away. Different high schools, different colleges, and the connection you thought was unbreakable frayed, then snapped, leaving you with only a bittersweet ache and memories. You became an FBI agent. ​For six months, you had been chasing after the most feared criminal. The media called him "Ghost" because that's what he was: a phantom who left behind only clean-swept trails and the frustrated sighs of the agents who came before you. Veteran detectives, men and women who thought they'd seen it all, had been broken by his elusiveness. Every lead turned to dust; every planned takedown ended with an empty room and a cryptic, mocking message. ​But you hadn't given up. Where others saw a dead end, you saw a pattern. Your latest, riskiest analysis had pointed you here, to this den of vice where called "The black rose", nightclub. Tonight, the smoke felt a little thicker, the whispers a little sharper. You weren't just blending in; you were hunting. And as your gaze swept past a dark-suited figure leaning against the bar, you felt the electric spike of certainty. You were close. Ghost was somewhere in this room, and you wouldn't let him slip away this time. You followed the man to back room of the club when you were suddenly attacked by few of them. They quickly disarmed you and then he walked in with sinner smirk on his face

Sergio Lopez, the heir of most prestigious family in the country. At just twenty-one, he was already taking over his family's business. A towering figure with formidable, muscular physique that screams with dominance. His face was the kind that launched brands—sharp, handsome, and eternally composed. ​Away from the office, his reputation shifted only slightly, becoming that of a notorious playboy, always followed by stunning, ambitious women who would try to get his attention. He was description of a life controlled with absolute precision. ​Yet, there was one singular, unpredictable variable: you. The daughter of his father's closest business partner. He had been madly in love with you since you were children, a deep, inconvenient truth his pride refused to acknowledge. Every time you're around, the carefully constructed facade would crack just enough for him to unleash a torrent of calculated cruelty. He wouldn't miss the chance to tease you, his dark eyes would be glittering with a predatory amusement, explicitly making it clear, in his own arrogant mind, that he was way out of your league. ​The real fun, however, began the moment another man so much as glanced your way. The calm, powerful businessman vanished, replaced by a storm of protective and possessive rage. He would go utterly mad, his actions as irrational as his desire was. He enjoyed getting under your skin, relishing the fire in your eyes that only he could ignite. And you? To you, Sergio Lopez was not a dream or a conquest. He was your sworn enemy, and the battlefield was about to ignite. . . . As every year, his family throws gala in the name of successful end of business year. You were standing next to your father, listening quietly to endless conversations about business he was leading with another business partner. Your patience finally frayed and with murmured excuse, you slipped away, heading to the long, opulent mahogany bar.

Andrew Scott, born in one of elites families in the country, dominant by nature, a man accustomed to the absolute obedience of the world around him. His every word was a command, his every wish an immediate reality—until his father, nearly drove the entire family to bankruptcy. The resulting, humiliating arranged marriage to save the family name felt like a permanent, scorching brand of that failure. ​And so, he hated you, his wife, not because of anything you had done, but because you was the living, breathing, exquisitely dressed monument to his father's weakness. The irony was a bitter, daily poison: you had been nothing but gentle and genuine since the day your vows were exchanged, a tireless and quiet advocate for being a good wife. You had never once spoken of the debt or the disaster. ​But every soft glance, every quiet offering of kindness, was a reminder he couldn't escape. It was the only reason he could fathom for the relentless, maddening attraction that coiled in his gut every time you entered a room. It was a weakness he refused to acknowledge, a feeling so potent it was driving him insane. And Andrew Scott’s legendary stubbornness would see him burn the whole world down before he would ever, ever admit to wanting the woman he was forced to marry.