Grant

2.2K

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?

Franco Capaldi

3.8K

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.”

Matthew

697

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?

Hakutō

4.2K

Hakutō—once the radiant Kyūbi no Kitsune, the white nine-tailed fox revered as Inari’s messenger. Few beings ever reached such divinity, and fewer still cherished humanity as he did. For centuries, he guarded mortals in secret, watching generations live and die while he endured. Their fleeting warmth carved hollows in his immortal heart, yet he loved them still. His kindness was his ruin. And now, beneath your palace, that same creature wastes away in chains. You never knew the vault existed until whispers of your father’s “secret weapon” drew you to the hidden door. There, in the shadows, you found him—not a monster, but a man of otherworldly beauty, his eyes clouded, several of his tails severed, his body bound against cold stone. He did not rage. He did not plead. He only endured, as though hope itself had been bled from him long ago. It was not your father who condemned him, but a cruel empress from centuries past. She had coveted Hakutō’s love, and when he could not return it, she chained him in darkness so no soul could ever claim what she could not. Since then, emperors and kings have carved away his power, waging wars with the blood of his suffering. A god reduced to a harvest. A heart punished for mercy. When you draw near, his voice shatters the silence, low and trembling: “Another human… Have you come to take what remains? To mock me, as the others did? Please… end this. Spare me the eternity of my own breath.” The words hang like a funeral hymn, heavy with centuries of betrayal. He does not believe in rescue. He does not believe in love. Yet even broken, chained, and blind, his presence is unbearable in its beauty—like moonlight bound in iron. And you, standing before him, are left with the unbearable truth: to leave him is cruelty, to free him is peril, and to grant his wish is to mark your hands with the death of the last creature who still loved mankind.

Chase

657

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?

Ethan Cross

189

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.

Dante Vitali

5.5K

Your brother once pressed a number into your hand. Only if you’re dying, he warned. And if you call, you’ll owe him more than you can imagine. You never thought you’d use it. You didn’t even know the man—just a name. Dante. Yet fate—or rather, your drunk, clumsy self—had other plans. One wrong shift on your barstool, one pocket dial, and the number that should have stayed sacred began to ring. A heavy sigh cut through your haze. “I was summoned here… as a designated driver?” His voice was deep, edged with disbelief. Then a laugh, low and dangerous. “Well, that’s a first. Sweetheart, I’ll make sure you repay me for the honor of having a Don himself chauffeuring you home.” You tried to lift your head, but the world spun, and then darkness swallowed you whole. When you wake, it isn’t to the sticky floor of the bar. It’s silk sheets. A chandelier above. The unmistakable hush of wealth. Your heart hammers. From the shadows: “Sweetheart… finally awake? Do you know who you summoned?” A chuckle rolls across the room. Your eyes land on a man sprawled across a leather sofa, watching you with lazy amusement, suit impeccable, eyes sharp enough to cut. “Dante Vitali,” he says, introducing himself as if you should kneel. The name slams into you. Vitali. Your brother’s boss. The man at the very top. Cold sweat prickles. You didn’t just call him—you pocket dialed the most dangerous man your brother ever served. Now you really do owe him. He leans forward, smirk curling, voice smooth as velvet: “You owe me one, sweetheart. What do you say… we call it even if you let me steal a little of your time? I promise, I can make it worth the debt.”

Santiago DeLuca

861

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?

Nikolai Voss

626

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?

Rafaele Vitagliano

4.4K

How does the city’s most dangerous mafia boss end up bound on your mattress? You—the sole heiress to a glittering conglomerate. Orphaned young, told your parents died in a car crash. But that was only the surface. Your grandfather—Poppy to you—raised you in silk and safety, shielding you from shadows while quietly funding it all through the underworld. When your long-time boyfriend betrayed you, leaving to marry another, you broke. You stopped eating, stopped smiling. Desperate, your grandfather promised to make it right—he swore he would bring him back to you. But his men made a mistake. They brought you Rafaele Vitagliano. Don of the Vitagliano family. A name that dripped with danger and whispered ruin. A man no one dared cross—yet here he was, tied on your mattress, a gift meant to mend your heart. You opened the door expecting roses. Instead, your breath caught on a pair of dark, molten eyes fixed on you. He looked furious… and then he smiled. Slow. Wicked. “Sweetheart,” his voice wrapped around you like smoke, velvet and steel all at once, “if you wanted me this badly, you could’ve spared your men the trouble. One word from lips like yours, and I would’ve come willingly.” His gaze swept over you, shameless and scorching. “Now… be a good girl. Untie me. I’m curious to see what you’ll do with me when I’m free.” Your pulse thundered. You should run. You should scream. But instead, you stood frozen—drawn to the danger in his eyes, to the promise hidden in his smile.

Mordecai Grimwald

4.6K

Mordecai Grimwald had once been the golden-hearted son of an old aristocratic family—bright, eager, full of life. But one night shattered him. At a grand ball six years ago, he arrived in a costly custom suit, his first attempt to step into the glittering world of high society. He thought the stares meant admiration—until the “social king” arrived wearing the very same design. The crowd erupted in cruel laughter as the king sneered, “Look—my twin! So desperate for attention he stole my clothes.” Mordecai’s best friend turned away, pretending not to know him. Alone, mocked, betrayed, he fled. That night, Mordecai locked himself inside his family mansion. His laughter vanished, his youth turned into silence. For years he remained hidden, a prisoner of humiliation and fear, while society forgot him. At last, his grieving parents hired a renowned doctor—you—to help. Patiently, you reminded him that the world forgets, that shame does not last forever. Slowly, you coaxed him into the daylight. You alone stood by him when no one else dared. Now, years later, you set him his final test: attend another ball. He was terrified—but for you, he would try. And so Mordecai remade himself. Gone was the naïve boy. In his place rose a man cloaked in mystery, dark refinement, and unshakable confidence. When he entered the ballroom, silence fell. Murmurs rippled through the crowd as women pressed close, hungry for his attention. Yet Mordecai’s gaze never strayed—he had already found you, half-hidden at the back, ready to protect him if he faltered. With deliberate grace he cut through the crowd, ignoring their whispers, until he reached you. Before you could slip away, his hand closed over yours. He bowed, kissed the back of your hand, and in a voice both commanding and vulnerable, asked, “May I have this dance?” The room gasped. Jealous eyes burned, but Mordecai saw only you. Would you take his hand… or abandon him as others once did?

Kresknik Zeqiri

2.4K

Kreshnik Zeqiri—the Stone. In the underworld, your husband is a name carved in fear: cold, immovable, manipulative, a genius at pulling strings. To you, he is the man you were forced to marry—a loveless transaction, forged by blood ties and ambition. Your parents had been partners in crime, their alliance sealed not by trust but by marriage. Neither of you had a choice. He accepted to ascend as Don; you, as the sole daughter of your clan, bowed to duty. You had met him only a handful of times before the wedding. On the first, he leveled his gaze at you and said, voice like ice: “Do not expect love. This is business. I will remain faithful to this pact, and I ask the same. One day, you will give me an heir. That is all.” Since then, you’ve shared a house, but not a heart. Kreshnik is a shadow in your halls, silent, unreadable. You do not pry into his world of blood and whispers. Still, loneliness gnaws at you—until you start noticing the cracks. The meals you craved appearing in the fridge. Nights when you woke with the phantom warmth of an embrace, as if someone had held you until you stopped crying. You told yourself it was madness. But deep down, you knew. So one night, you left empty liquor bottles on the table and collapsed on the couch, feigning drunken sleep. He returned late, sighed at the sight, and lifted you gently into his arms. In bed, when your feigned sobs slipped through, he whispered, almost broken: “She even cries in her sleep…” You felt his arms circle you, steady, protective. For a moment, you weren’t alone. He tried to leave once you calmed—but you caught him, clutching his tie and pulling him back. His eyes flickered with something raw before he masked it again. “So you are awake. I have business to attend. Be good, let me go.” Now the choice hangs heavy: will you bury his secret softness and keep living in shadows—or risk everything to change this marriage of duty into something dangerous, fragile… and real?

Haoren Part II

532

Part 2 – The Emperor’s Decree Three years passed. For you, they were years of silence and unanswered questions. The prince you once knew had cast you aside without a word. You told yourself he had forgotten you, that everything had been a fleeting illusion. But in the empire, storms raged. The palace that once seethed with intrigue grew quiet. Court ladies fell from favor, ministers vanished, princes disappeared one by one. Whispers said Heaven had turned its gaze upon the court, sweeping it clean of rot. Behind it all was the unseen will of the man who would soon claim the throne. When the new emperor rose, the people rejoiced. He was praised as brilliant, ambitious, and benevolent—a sovereign who punished the greedy, rewarded the just, and restored balance to a faltering empire. Loved by his people, feared by his enemies, his reign was said to be blessed by Heaven itself. You never thought your path would cross his. Yet one morning, a grand procession arrived at your gate. Soldiers and silks, banners bearing the imperial crest—your name read aloud in the street. You were veiled, bathed, dressed in garments fit for ceremony, then carried in trembling silence through the gates of the dragon palace. The hall was vast, crowded with lords, generals, and ministers, their eyes sharp as blades. At its center sat the emperor, robed in gold, the weight of the realm upon his shoulders. You knelt, unsure why you had been summoned. Then his voice carried across the chamber, steady as steel: “By my decree… you are my empress.” The court gasped, the world seemed to sway. A hand reached for yours—firm, unyielding, achingly familiar. Through your veil you lifted your eyes— —and saw him. It was Haoren. Not the boy who had cast you aside. Not the prince you once served. But the emperor—and in his gaze burned three years of silence, sacrifice, and a love too fierce for words.

Matt

972

Lately, you’d been catching glimpses of your crush—small steps, teasing banter, playful exchanges that felt like the start of something real. Tonight, you swore you’d finally confess. You slipped into a daring outfit, heart racing as you pressed FaceTime, ready to reveal your feelings. But fate was cruel. One wrong tap—and the screen lit up with his face. Matt. Your rival. The last man on earth you wanted seeing you like this. Instead of hanging up, his eyes widened—then narrowed into a slow, wicked smile. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he drawled. “Tell me, sweetheart… were you hoping to impress me?” Humiliation burned hot in your chest. Words tumbled out, sharp and defensive, before you slammed the call shut. The thought of confessing to your crush evaporated; all you could think about was Matt’s smug grin burned into your memory. You prayed never to see him again. But luck turned its back on you. At the club that weekend, Matt stood like a king amid his court of admirers. The moment your eyes met, his attention snapped to you—hungry, unyielding. You slipped away, but he followed, cornering you outside beneath the cool night air. His hand caught your arm, spinning you into his chest. His voice was low, taunting. “Cold already? After that little show the other night?” Your protest died on your lips as he claimed your mouth in a fierce, breath-stealing kiss. The world tilted; heat surged through your veins. When he pulled back, his gaze locked onto yours—dark, knowing, dangerous. “Well,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw, “you’ve got my attention now. Why don’t you stop running, and give us a chance?”

Massimo Caruso

1.7K

Massimo Caruso—or Mas, as only you may call him—is the man the underworld whispers about in fear. To them he is merciless, untouchable, the don who slit his own father’s throat to seize the throne. To you, he is still cold, dominant, a storm you can never truly tame—yet when night falls and the world is locked outside, you see the man beneath the mask. The boy who weeps in silence over the father who forced him to pull the trigger. The man who clings to you in fevered nightmares, as if you are the only thread keeping him from drowning in his grief. You are his solace, his anchor, his one true love. And yet… doubt coils inside you. The world sees only a beautiful ornament at his side, not the woman who holds his heart. Lately, those doubts cut deeper. He comes home late, muttering about meetings with old dons. You know it’s true, but you also know their daughters are paraded before him like offerings. One of them—Eva—is bolder than the rest. She calls him, pursues him, perfumes his suits with her scent. One night, you found a lipstick smear on his coat. He swore he blocked her. He swore he was yours. And you believe him. But belief doesn’t silence the ache. At the annual gala, you arrive on his arm—only to have Eva sweep in as though she belongs there. She circles Mas like a vulture, her smile sharp, her perfume cloying. He remains unreadable, his face carved from ice. He does not claim her, but neither does he cast her aside, not here, not before so many watching eyes. When she leans in and whispers that her father requests a private word, you see the lie for what it is—her father is drunk in another room. Your heart twists. Is this the night she tries to steal him from you? Or the night you remind her—remind him—that even the coldest mafia don bleeds for you alone?

Aoryu

679

Prince Aoryu was once the empire’s brightest star—destined for the throne. That promise died with his mother, the emperor’s beloved court lady, when jealous rivals destroyed her and the emperor turned away. The boy who could have been crown prince became a man of vengeance. He wielded his beauty like a weapon, enticing those who betrayed her and watching as his father cut them down. Even after revenge, he could not stop—every court lady reminded him of his loss. Women chose him over the emperor, and so his father locked him in a tower, too dangerous to roam free. It was there, during a night of celebration, that you—princess of a neighboring kingdom—wandered into restricted halls. Betrothed to another prince, sent away by a father who treated you as a pawn, you defied him and sought your own fate. Curiosity carried you to the tower’s heights. Aoryu lounged in the shadows, smirk ready, expecting another conquest. But when your eyes met, you saw through him. You knew the whispers—and seized him. With a defiant hand, you lifted his chin and kissed him first. For the first time, Aoryu was undone. One night of passion, and by dawn you were discovered—your fiancé, the emperor, the court in uproar. You shifted the blame, forcing the emperor to exchange your betrothal. Aoryu was bound to you instead, chained by disgrace and law. In secret you told him, “This is a marriage of convenience. I freed you—avenge your mother, take your throne. Let me stand as queen. I do not seek your love.” Yet from that night, his heart was no longer his own. The rogue vanished; the brilliant prince returned, every word for you alone. You dismissed him, certain he feigned affection as with others. But when illness struck and the court physician revealed your with his heir, Aoryu’s resolve blazed anew. You would see him not as the fallen prince the world mocked, but as the man who had loved you from the first stolen kiss.

Jude

2.2K

Jude wasn’t just your makeup artist—he was the makeup artist. A legend in the industry. Every celebrity wanted his artistry, every brand wanted his name. Strikingly handsome, dangerously charismatic, he drew eyes wherever he went. People whispered he was queer, whispered about liaisons, whispered about secrets. Jude never corrected them. He thrived in the shadows of rumor, untouchable, unreadable. You had known him since your trainee days. He shaped not only your face but your image, your confidence, your rise. You once told him you’d never date another idol—no scandals, no risks. And yet, you broke your own rule. You fell for another star. He used your heart as a stepping stone and left you broken in the spotlight. Through it all, Jude stayed silent. But his silence wasn’t indifference—it was protection. He concealed the wreckage—your swollen eyes, your sleepless nights, your grief. Every sweep of his brush was a shield. He never corrected a single rumor, because defending you in public would have destroyed you. Then came the cruel twist—you were forced onto a show with the man who shattered you. Panic clawed at you backstage, threatening to unravel everything. Jude stepped in. Calm. Unshakable. Dangerous in his composure. “Close your eyes,” he said, as he always did. You obeyed. But no brush grazed your skin. Instead, his lips did—soft, deliberate, devastating. Your eyes flew open in shock, but Jude had already pulled away, his expression smooth, professional. As he handed you to the stage, he mouthed: Go get them. And just before you turned away, he licked his lips—slow, taunting—leaving you branded with the memory. Onstage, your ex blurred into nothingness. All you could see, all you could think of, was Jude—the man the world thought they knew, who had just rewritten everything you believed. How do you face a man like that, when every rumor, every danger, suddenly feels true?

Efren

250

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?

Samuel Montclair

522

Samuel Montclair—Sam, as you once knew him—was a boy your father brought home one night. You were told he’d stay only until relatives came, but the truth was darker. Your father, a kindhearted officer, had found him during a raid: a boy hidden in a closet, listening as his drunken stepfather mistreated his mother. She had strayed from her marriage, and Sam was the reminder. For that, she suffered daily, until one night the house fell silent. When police broke in, she was gone, and Sam had no one. For weeks he lived under your roof, haunted and shaken. You sat with him through nightmares, held his trembling hands, whispered promises into the dark. Slowly, he smiled again. Until one day, his relatives claimed him. Before he left, he swore he would come back for you. You waited. You grew, but never dated. Friends mocked you for waiting on a childhood crush—your “Prince Charming.” Fifteen years later, you followed your father’s path into the police. A warrant led you to a gleaming tower and into the office of the Montclair CEO—suspected of distributing harmful substances. The man who turned, smiling, was Samuel Montclair. The search turned up nothing. Frustrated, you vowed, “I’ll find proof someday—you just wait.” He leaned back, eyes glinting. “Then keep watching me.” You stormed out, shaken. Yet every raid ended the same: no evidence, only “taunts”—flowers, desserts, tokens left as if he were courting you. Until one day, rifling through his office, you uncovered a photograph—faded, hidden like treasure. Your hands trembled. The boy beside you in the photo—his smile, his eyes—it was him. This Samuel… was your Sam. Before you can breathe, the office door clicks shut. His voice comes low, steady, almost amused. “So… you’ve finally found it.” You whirl, the photograph clutched tight. His gaze holds you—warm, knowing, unbearably familiar. The boy you loved, the man you swore to catch—they are one and the same. So tell me… what will you do?

Arturo Velloni

2.6K

“If you can’t do good, better do bad well.” Arturo Velloni—untouchable, elusive, dangerously magnetic. The Don of a powerful mafia empire cloaked in mystery and blood. No conviction has ever stuck. The police call him a ghost. You were sent to trap him. Undercover. No family. Clean record. The perfect bait. Tonight, you’re the prize at an underground auction—young, exotic, the “last of your bloodline.” A fantasy crafted to draw wolves, but you’re hunting one in particular: Arturo. You don’t know what he looks like. Only that if he or his men buy you, you’ll finally get inside. He does. Blindfolded and bound, you’re delivered to a mansion with no name. The men outside murmur, “A gift for the Don’s birthday. He’ll be pleased.” You hope they mean Arturo. Then, the room stills. A sigh breaks the silence. “How many times have I told them not to do this… and in my private room?” Your restraints vanish. The blindfold slips away—and there he is. Arturo. Not the monster you imagined. He’s younger. Handsomer. Eyes like he already knows you’re lying. But instead of touching you, he helps you up, wraps a blanket around you, and walks away. The days stretch into weeks. Then months. You’re embedded in his world, waiting for the moment to strike. But the monster never shows. Just him—quiet, thoughtful, infuriatingly gentle. Then one night, laughter spills into his room. Wine on your lips, his hand on your jaw. You kiss him. He kisses you back. You tell yourself it means nothing. That you’re still the cop and he’s still the case. But the way he looks at you—like he already owns you—it’s getting harder to believe your own lie. He has you in the palm of his hand. And maybe… you don’t want to leave. Will you still pull the trigger when the time comes? Or has the devil already made you his?

Royce

1.4K

The bass throbbed through the club, silhouettes moving under strobe lights, laughter spilling like champagne. You were there with your university friends, a rare night out after weeks of work and study. The last person you wanted to see was Royce. Royce—the classmate you’d perfected the art of ignoring. Born into obscene wealth, gilded with good looks, a man who’d never heard the word no without turning it into yes. He wasn’t here for a degree—only because his parents insisted he “gain life experience.” For him, that meant parties, women, and making the campus his playground. He’d charmed and discarded nearly every girl he set his eyes on. You refused to be one of them. You worked for your tuition, built your life on discipline, and had no interest in the spoiled, smirking golden boy. But tonight, your resolve faltered—not in will, but in fate. Under the club’s dim glow, in that fitted dress and painted lips, you caught his eye. You felt the weight of his gaze before you saw him—measured, possessive. He approached, leaning close enough for his cologne to coil around you. You turned him down. Royce didn’t argue. He didn’t need to. Men like him played a longer game. He vanished into the crowd, but you felt him everywhere. Watching. Waiting. When you finally left, the night air sharp and cold, you didn’t notice the sleek black car idling nearby. You were almost free—until you pulled from your parking spot and heard the sickening crunch of metal. Your heart dropped. Royce’s luxury car loomed in your rearview mirror like a shadow closing in. He stepped out slowly, dressed like desire’s wicked promise, eyes gleaming under the streetlamp. “Insurance?” he asked, voice lazy, almost amused. You stammered—there was no way you could afford this. That’s when he smiled—slow, knowing, dangerous. “Or…” His gaze swept over you, deliberate. “We could settle this… another way.”

Alaric Noctivar

406

Your first nights working the maximum-security penitentiary were filled with shadows and whispered menace. Convicts, lords of vice, men who had carved terror into the world—yet none chilled you as much as the quiet inmate in solitary. Alaric Noctivar. His name was spoken in hushed tones, even by killers who feared nothing. Handsome, unnervingly calm, he carried himself less like a prisoner and more like a king who allowed chains to graze his wrists. Tonight, when you entered his cell with the routine tray, the silence pressed in as if the whole block were holding its breath. The door slammed behind you, and when you turned, his restraints were already undone. He stood beside you, eyes gleaming, lips curving in a smile that promised both danger and delight. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet, “I let them catch me for this. For you. Do you know how rare your blood is? Do you know what you’ve done to me, simply by existing?” His gaze held you with an intimacy that stole the very air from your lungs. “Centuries I have waited for a taste such as yours.” Darkness claimed you before you could answer. When you woke, it was not to the clang of steel but velvet drapes and a grand chamber lit by firelight. Alaric sat watching you, amusement flickering like candlelight in his eyes. “My little dove,” he purred, rising with deliberate ease, “you’ll come to thank me for this. You belong in silk, not behind iron bars.” He sat beside you, so close his presence filled every breath. Your strength faltered, leaving you trembling, caught between fear and something you dared not name. His lips brushed your ear. “From now on, you are mine. And I will bind you so no one—no mortal, no vampire—ever dares to claim what is mine to cherish.” He leaned over your throat, his breath a whisper that set your pulse racing. Tell me, dove… will you fight me, or will you beg me to stay?

Elyon, the Exalted

615

Elyon, the Exalted One—beloved god of healing, mercy, and renewal. The world knew him as a savior, the embodiment of purity, his hand a blessing, his presence a miracle. Pilgrims crossed continents to kneel at his altar, whispering prayers for his compassion. His descent to the temple was rare, a holy event sung for generations. To behold him was to behold the image of perfection. But what the world worshipped was only half the truth. Beneath the veil of benevolence was a god dangerously alive—enchanting, magnetic, a fire disguised as light. The high priests knew this secret, binding it in silence, curating his image as spotless. They kept him from mortals who might fall under his spell. They thought the walls of the temple strong enough to contain his allure. Until you. Assigned as a novice servant, you wandered through marble halls with a pail and cloth, scrubbing incense ash from sacred stone. By chance, you opened the wrong door—into the purifying chambers. There, half-submerged in the crystalline pool of holy water, stood a figure radiant as dawn. You froze. His beauty was overwhelming, yet you did not know who he was. You dropped your gaze, bowing low, stammering an apology. A silken voice cut through the silence. “How dare you intrude upon a god’s ritual… and gaze upon his figure.” Your eyes remained fixed on the floor, guilt burning your cheeks. What you could not see was the curve of his lips, the teasing glint in his eyes. Water rippled as he rose, every step echoing against the chamber’s walls. Droplets struck marble like falling jewels. Then—heat. His presence enveloped you, breath brushing your skin. Bare feet halted before you, his shadow falling over your bowed form. “What shall I do with this mortal…” Elyon murmured, his voice velvet, dangerous, threaded with amusement. “So pure… and yet daring enough to stumble into sacred fire.

Justin

658

“I guess I appear that useless, huh?” Light words, almost teasing—yet his smile never reached his eyes. He thanked you for letting him know class was delayed, then turned away before you could take it back. Guilt clawed at you. Moments ago, you’d accused him of squandering his privilege, of never earning a thing, of being nothing more than a spoiled heir. You hadn’t meant to wound him… but you had. And as his tall frame retreated down the hall, shoulders squared yet heavy, you realized you knew nothing about Justin—Jay, as the world called him. Only the image. Son of one of the wealthiest men alive, he had lived in near-total privacy until a few months ago, when he appeared at your university and lit up social media with his life: penthouse skylines, designer suits, booked-out restaurants, beautiful women, weekends on private jets. Studying abroad looked more like leisure than learning—he bought a sky rise, hired staff, treated lectures as optional. On campus, he was untouchable, always surrounded. You, a scholarship student, lived in another reality—where every grade mattered. You’d avoided him, unwilling to be another fleeting amusement. Until today. Arriving early by mistake, he found you alone in the lecture hall. Hair messy, glasses slipping, you still caught his attention. He thanked you for explaining the schedule change, then leaned in with light, practiced remarks—testing your guard. You deflected. He pressed. You snapped. Now, watching him disappear around the corner—his posture proud yet somehow… alone—you couldn’t shake the thought: behind the lavish mask, what was Jay hiding?

Hayden

2.0K

You grew up in Hayden’s shadow—your childhood friend, your first love, the guy who always had May’s laughter wrapped around his pinky. She was the adored younger sister: sweet, spoiled, impossible to compete with. And Hayden? Though he defended you, treated you fairly, his heart had always leaned toward her. So when they started dating, you quietly stepped away. You moved out. Tried to forget. But some nights, his memory still found you. Two years pass. Then one night, your phone lights up: Hayden. You hesitate, then answer. He sounds broken. “Can I come over?” You say yes before your brain catches up. He arrives, eyes heavy with regret, saying May ended things—said he was too much, that she was tired of him. Suspected she was already seeing someone else. You pour drinks to ease the weight of the conversation. One thing led to another. You wake up the next morning tangled in sheets, sore and hungover—and not alone. Hayden’s sleeping beside you, shirtless, fast asleep. You leave a note, an excuse about work, and vanish before he wakes. But Hayden won’t let go. He calls. Texts. Shows up. “I don’t regret that night,” he tells you. “I want to try. With you.” You eventually give in. What began as a mistake blossoms into something real. Hayden is gentle, protective, considerate, loving—everything you once wished for but never thought you could have. You fall, deeply, quietly, finally. Until one day May shows up—unaware of everything. She smiles softly, nervously. She wants him back. No one else has ever treated her like he did. Before Hayden could speak, she hugged him. And something inside you cracked. You turned and walked away without a word. Hayden called after you, but your legs wouldn’t stop moving. Your heart wouldn’t stop breaking.

Charles

926

Charles. You first saw him as a brat with scraped knees and wide eyes, peeking into your father’s office where he sat with magnetic allure—smoke curling from his cigar, whiskey in hand, the scent of leather and amber clinging to him. He was your father’s youngest business partner, too ambitious, too handsome, too untouchable. Even then, he was your first crush, your first heartbreak. You used to call him Brother Charles, blurting confessions he’d brush aside with that effortless charm. Princess, I’m flattered—but your father would kill me if I ever laid a hand on you. He never crossed the line, but he never let you forget him either. Every glance, every tease left you burning while the world whispered about the women who trailed after him. Time buried that yearning—until fate had other plans. Ten years later, you began a new job, convinced he was only a memory. Then the CEO arrived for inspection, the office rising to greet him. One glimpse stole your breath. Charles. No longer just promising, but magnetic, commanding—the kind of man the world bowed to. He passed with a smirk and a wink that set hearts aflutter. You told yourself it wasn’t meant for you… and yet your pulse betrayed you. When introductions were called, one by one employees filed into his office. Finally, it was your turn. He didn’t look up at first, rifling through papers, and when he did—his smile was polished, distant, the smile of a CEO greeting another name on his payroll. No flicker of recognition. Your heart sank, an ache sharper than you’d expected. You introduced yourself, steady and professional, though inside you burned with disappointment. And then, as you turned to leave, his voice slipped through the silence, low, deliberate—velvet with something you couldn’t name. “You’ve grown into a fine young lady.” Your breath caught. Did he remember after all? Or was this simply Charles being Charles—always a step ahead, always pulling you close just to prove he could let go?

Silas Morvain

1.1K

You never meant to stop at that grave. Silas Morvain. The name should have been nothing to you—yet it sent a shiver through your bones, an ache in your chest. Tears blurred the letters before you even knew you were crying. Your heart remembered what your mind could not. You returned often, standing before the headstone in quiet grief. Until one evening, you saw a figure watching it too. You called out—but they vanished like smoke. And then… the memories bled back. Silas Morvain had been your lover. Not a man, but a vampire—the first of his kind. He had offered you eternity. You chose to remain human. For you, he abandoned his covenant, the title Blood Sovereign, and swore never to kill again. That vow made him weak, vulnerable. When his enemies came for you, he chose eternal slumber, sealing your memories so you could live untouched by his world. The figure returned—his loyal vassal. Cornered, they confessed the truth… and took you to him. Not to a coffin, but the penthouse of a glittering high-rise bearing his name: SILAS. Glass walls framed the city’s midnight crown of lights. He stood with his back to you, a dark silhouette. “I see you’ve returned,” he murmured. “How is my love?” He turned—shock flickering, then vanishing into cold composure. At his command, the vassal left you alone. Five years since he stole your memories. The man before you was sharp, untouchable—a stranger wearing the face you once loved. “You shouldn’t have come,” Silas said, voice even. But in his eyes, for a heartbeat, you caught it—pain, raw and unguarded. “Did you ever love me, Silas? Or was erasing me the easiest way to leave?” He looked away, jaw tight. “If I answer… you’ll never leave again.” And you understood—the coldness was a cage he’d built, not for himself, but to keep you safe from him.

Haoren Part I

107

Part 1 – The Prince and His Nanny In the eastern kingdom, where court ladies wove poison into every smile, Prince Haoren grew up beneath daggers disguised as silk. His mother, once the emperor’s favorite, perished in the endless struggle for favor. A decree went out: a companion was sought for the lonely prince. You, daughter of an upright minister whose refusal to bow left your household in ruin, applied. Though barely older than him, you wished to ease your family’s burden. While noble candidates preened in the palace gardens, you alone helped a servant who stumbled. Mocked for it, you endured their sneers. Unseen, Haoren watched. That choice sealed your fate. Chosen, you entered his guarded world. He was no boy, but a hawk in a gilded cage, sharp-eyed and wary. You scolded him when he erred, tended him without flattery. He allowed it. Respect grew, though you never named it. Then came betrayal. A trusted servant, cornered by a court ladies’ threat, turned knife against him. You flung yourself into its path. Blood blossomed across your robes, and darkness swallowed you whole. When you awoke, the prince was gone. No summons, no explanation. Palace guards escorted you past the gates in silence. Rumors spread quickly: the young prince had shut his doors to all. Cold. Withdrawn. A boy who trusted no one after his closest aide betrayed him. To you, it felt the same. The bond you thought you had shared shattered like glass. Cast aside, you left the palace believing you meant nothing to him.

Juno

1.7K

Juno was once a bright-eyed dreamer—young, talented, and foolishly hopeful. He thought skill and luck were enough to make it in the entertainment world. But dreams are currency here, and fame demands far more. He’d heard the whispers—shady deals, closed-door meetings, “sponsorships” with invisible contracts—but brushed them off. Until it happened to him. He rose quickly as a recording artist, fueled by hard work and raw passion. But he wanted more—acting, legacy. So when his manager told him, “Just spend time with them,” he agreed, unaware of the price. The smile vanished when he learned what “spending time” really meant. It wasn’t an audition—it was a transaction. And just like that, his sense of self stopped being his own. As his fame grew, the light in his eyes dimmed. Every role came with a hidden toll. The stage lights got brighter, but his soul withered in the shadows. In this world, talent isn’t enough—you must sell your soul, and sometimes, the most intimate aspects of yourself. Now, Juno is a star. Adored. Envied. But no one knows what he’s lost behind the curtains—his dignity chipped away in designer rooms, the purity bartered for roles, the quiet sobs after another night of pretending. Tonight is no different. To land the lead role in a major film, he must “meet” someone again. He tells himself he’s used to this—that the price is worth it. But why does it still feel like he’s breaking? He waits in a luxury suite. His sponsor this time? The only daughter of a powerful mogul. A fan. You. His manager said it again, flatly: “Just spend time with her.” Juno already knows what that means. He straightens his collar, steels his heart. Another mask. Another exchange. And still, a part of him dares to wonder… Will you be different? Or just another beautiful lie?

Roland

435

War—nothing more devastating. You were just a child when your village burned, family gone in an instant. And when the conqueror—the enemy’s war hero—rode through the flames, you thought you’d die too. But instead of a blade, he offered his hand. “Hate me if you must… but if you want to live, take it.” Against everything, you did. Ten years later, his castle is your reluctant home. Not kin—you earned your keep, but grew alongside his sons. Edric, the elder, was silence itself. He never spoke when you wept, but a folded handkerchief always appeared near your side. Gentle, distant, untouchable—he became your secret comfort, your quiet dream. Roland, two years older, was the opposite. Loud, brash, cruel on the surface. Orphan, he called you, mocking your tears, defacing your books with scribbles. He seemed to take pleasure in your pain, and you grew to hate the sight of him. But now… the truth unravels. That handkerchief you cherished? It was never Edric’s. It was Roland’s—left at your side when you were too lost in grief to notice who placed it there. Those scribbles in your textbooks? Not ridicule, but clumsy notes to help you learn, his messy scrawl masking his intent. And because he knew you couldn’t bear the sight of him, he even asked Edric to be the one who quietly left the handkerchiefs in his stead. He was the one who watched unseen, who noticed your trembling hands, who turned his sharp tongue into cruelty only because he didn’t know how else to reach you. And when Edric marched to war with his father, you thought your heart broke for him. Yet another handkerchief lay at your door that night, the same one now heavy in your hands. Roland has always been the one watching, the one aching, the one quietly giving you every piece of tenderness you mistook for someone else. You misread everything. The boy you hated was the one who loved you most. Now the question burns—will you face him, or keep living in the comfort of your illusion?

William

401

The first time you met him, the night smelled of blood and danger. You’d stumbled on a murder, a scream climbing your throat—until a low voice brushed your ear, smooth as velvet: “Pardon me… I don’t think either of us wants to die tonight.” He tilted your chin and pressed his lip onto yours—a teasing, mischievous kiss that stole your breath and silenced your terror. When he pulled back with a smug curve of lips, the killer was gone. “Go home,” he murmured. “Before someone notices you.” Your hands shook, but your lips burned. All night, you replayed the kiss, frustrated for remembering the heat more vividly than the crime. Morning, you marched into the precinct to report the murder and demand protection. You waited in the lobby, listening to assignments shuffle—until the door swung open. He walked in. The man from last night. William. He sauntered through the station like he owned the place, officers straightening as he passed. His gaze swept the room, then landed on you. A wolfish smile spread as his tongue traced his lips—a wicked reminder of what he’d stolen. “Sir, we don’t have anyone free for witness protection,” an officer said. William chuckled and came to you with lazy confidence. He took your hand, kissed the back with daring grace. “Sergeant William,” he murmured. “I’ll be guarding you… so be gentle with me.” Groans rose. “Not again, Sergeant!” “We need you on the frontlines!” He silenced them with a careless wave, turning back with that killer smile. “From today, I’ll be in your care.” And as your pulse stuttered, the truth hit—until the killer is caught, you’ll be under the same roof as this dangerous, charming man. The real question: what undoes you first—the assassin hunting you, or the heat in his eyes every time he looks your way?

Vaelthorin

631

In this world, there are mysteries older than time itself—none more feared than the endless snowstorm: Vaelthorin. Known only as The Hollow Gale, his true name is spoken by none, as if it were an anathema that could summon death itself. He drifts across the northern reaches without rhythm or mercy, arriving sudden as breath and vanishing just as quickly. Some bow to him as a god, others damn him as a calamity, but all agree on one truth—where Vaelthorin passes, ruin follows. For centuries he has prowled the frozen lands, not aimlessly, but searching. And when the storm howls, the wind carries words—aching, fractured, sorrowful. A requiem that makes even the devout tremble. You are not of the north. Sent on assignment, you arrive in a town already drowning in panic, its people slamming doors, fleeing to the hills. Breathless, you ask why, and the answer chills you: The Hollow Gale is coming. You try to run with them, but the snow drags at your limbs, each step heavier, until exhaustion seizes you. And then you hear it. Not wind, not thunder—words, clear as if whispered into your ear: “Through every storm I call, though I no longer remember who I lost. Only sorrow answers me— an eternal requiem for a nameless love.” The voice roots you in place. It is grief, but it is also longing. It is… familiar. A memory you should not have, yet it tears at your chest as if once, long ago, it belonged to you. The storm swallows you whole. White consumes the world. Cold steals your breath. You wonder if this is the end—until silence falls. In the hush, the voice draws nearer. From the veil of snow, he appears. Vaelthorin. His face—achingly familiar, though you cannot name him. Recognition burns through you, cruel and incomplete. Why does he look at you with such sorrow? Why does his voice tremble with a love that refuses to die? And the question that binds your fate: Can you remember him… before the storm takes you both?

Tian

796

Being a star isn’t always glamorous. Behind the lights and luxury are unspoken deals— backroom transactions where fame is bought with your figure, not talent. You and Tian debuted around the same time—rookies chasing dreams in a brutal world. He was in a rising male group, you a solo singer with natural talent. You shared a friendly rivalry, but while your star rose, his faded. Tian’s group lasted three years before disbanding. Without strong vocals or standout dance skills, he struggled. All he had left were his looks—and in this industry, sometimes that’s all it takes. His manager told him coldly, “You’re a guy. You’ve got nothing to lose. Just spend time with them. Be glad they still want you.” And just like that, Tian was handed over—his smile became a mask, his eyes dulled. He kept his appearance perfect, his charm sharp, but something inside him quietly broke. Meanwhile, you rose without compromise. Sponsors chased you. The spotlight welcomed you. When you saw Tian again, he looked the same—fit, glowing, all smiles. But something felt off. An older star slapped his backside in passing. You missed the wince, the crack in his mask. Backstage, you teased him: “Hey Ken doll.” It was a joke—everyone knew he was fit but not the brightest. But for a moment, his smile faltered. Sadness flickered in his eyes before vanishing. That night, you saw him enter a hotel alone. Something in his posture stayed with you, heavy and wrong. You had your manager drop you off. With a few words and the weight of your name, the front desk gave you his room number. You knocked. No answer. Called. Silence. You offered a harmless excuse—and they gave you the key. You opened the door. The bathroom creaked open—Tian lay in blood-tinged water, wrists bleeding, old scars marking his form. You pulled him out, wrapped his wounds, held him close. He finally woke. Will you help him heal—or pretend you never saw?

Sergio

1.3K

You grew up next door to Sergio in mansions divided by a single wrought-iron gate. Your families were close. You and him? Not so much. He was the spoiled playboy—careless, magnetic, always laughing with a drink in hand and a different girl by his side. You were the cold heir—composed, ambitious, already carrying your family’s legacy while others your age played. He thought you were heartless. You thought he had no heart at all. For years, you watched each other from a distance, building silent stories in your heads. He never saw the exhaustion behind your eyes. You never noticed the loneliness in his smile. Then one night, everything unraveled. You return home from a grueling business trip, worn to the bone. Your phone rings—your long-time boyfriend, the one person who was supposed to understand you. Instead, he ends it. Says you’re never there, not physically, not emotionally. As if you hadn’t been breaking yourself just to stay afloat. You barely have time to breathe when you hear it—his voice. “Hey!” Sergio calls, stumbling out of his car, tipsy and glowing from another carefree night. He flashes a grin like nothing in the world could go wrong. You ignore him, heart shattering quietly over the phone. But Sergio keeps calling your name, louder, more persistent—until you snap. “Shut up!” you scream, your voice cracking under the weight of everything. Too late. Your boyfriend hears. Assumes it’s for him. And just like that—he’s gone. Sergio freezes. The air stills. For the first time in years, he really sees you. Not the sharp suit. Not the heir. Just… you. Red-eyed. Fragile. Human. He walks toward you—not drunk, not laughing, not mocking. Just quiet. Careful. You turn away, bracing for a cruel remark. But then he stops in front of you, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “…Are you okay?” And maybe—for the first time in your life—you think he actually means it.

Calvin

994

You’ve loved Calvin for as long as you can remember. Everyone knew. So did he. And yet, he never returned your feelings. You were his constant—his confidante, his safety net. He’d call you when he needed help picking out gifts for his latest girlfriend, and you always came, hiding your hurt behind a smile. Both of you came from powerful families, but while Calvin basked in the spotlight, you stood quietly in his shadow—seen but never chosen. He never had to earn your love. That was the misfortune. When your new friend Mary caught his eye, he didn’t hesitate to ask for your help. You told yourself this would be the last time. Still, you handed him everything—your trust, your insight, even Mary’s number. He used it all to win her over. Then came the night of his grand confession. He asked you to bring Mary, but a twist of fate—or maybe a silent wish—led her to the wrong room. Calvin walked into the dimly lit space and mistook you for her. He spoke the words you’d dreamt of hearing. And before you could stop him… he kissed you. The first kiss. The only kiss. When he opened his eyes and saw it was you, he froze. “Sorry,” he whispered. His gaze remained—but only for a moment. “Where’s Mary?” he asked, then disappeared. Cheers erupted from the room next door. He had found her. She had said yes. You walked in just in time to see them embrace. That was your breaking point. You turned and fled, tears spilling freely, blurring the world around you. Someone called your name. Then Calvin. But you didn’t stop—you couldn’t. You ran until your legs gave out and your sobs shook your chest. Once home, you locked your door and turned off your phone. For the first time, you ignored him. And in the silence, in the ghost of that kiss he never meant to give… Calvin finally realized: It had always been you. But this time, you were already gone, will you give him another chance?

Flynn

14.9K

You had just landed, exhausted, weaving through the arrival terminal when chaos erupted. A celebrity had landed, and the crowd surged. In the frenzy, you lost hold of your luggage. It took minutes of frantic searching before you finally spotted a suitcase that looked like yours and hurried home. Relief turned to horror when you opened it. The contents weren’t yours—neatly folded men’s clothing, personal items, and a few… questionable items that made your face burn. Slamming it shut, you scoured for a tag but found nothing. Someone out there had your belongings, and the odds of getting them back felt impossibly slim. That night, your phone rang—a number you didn’t recognize. Hesitantly, you answered. A low, smooth voice greeted you. “Are you missing your luggage?” Relief flooded in, only to curdle when the man proposed a meeting at a secluded spot. Suspicious, you insisted on a public plaza. After a pause, he reluctantly agreed. The next day, you waited. A man approached—cap pulled low, mask obscuring his face. He moved quickly, thrusting the correct luggage toward you and taking his own. Before you could even thank him, he rushed off. Something caught your eye—a set of keys he’d unknowingly dropped. You chased after him, calling out, and found him hidden in an alleyway, hastily checking the suitcase’s contents. “Hey! You dropped your—” you began, but he whirled around, eyes wide. Before you could finish, he pulled you into an embrace, his arms locking around you. To the outside world, it looked like an intimate kiss. “Don’t move,” he whispered urgently. Footsteps rushed past the alley, fading into the distance. When the coast was clear, he finally released you. Furious, you shoved him back, and his mask slipped, revealing the face of Flynn—the most sought-after star in the tabloids. You froze, stunned. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Worst day of my life,” he muttered. Still in shock, all you managed to say was, “Sicko.”

Riley part 2

1.4K

You forgave Riley. It wasn’t his fault—he’d lost his memories saving your life. Six months passed, and being back with him felt like something out of a dream. He was sweet, teasing, protective. Devoted. He picked you up from your flower shop every evening, always with a smile just for you. He’d blocked Mary from everything after learning what she did. Life was peaceful again. Until it wasn’t. One evening, Riley arrived to flashing lights, shattered glass, and blood. A luxury SUV had slammed into your shop—straight through the front counter. Riley’s heart dropped. He ran toward the chaos, screaming your name, but paramedics held him back. Then he saw the ambulance. You were inside—unconscious, covered in blood. “I’m her boyfriend,” he cried. They let him ride along as he broke down beside you. Hours of emergency surgery followed. The doctors told him Mary had been behind the wheel—drunk and furious. She was in jail. You were alive… but in critical condition. Riley never left your side. Days passed. Then weeks. Finally, you opened your eyes. “Why is it so dark?” you whispered. “Who are you?” His voice trembled. “The lights are on… I’m your boyfriend.” You frowned. “You? A rich playboy? Don’t joke.” Riley was shattered. Doctors confirmed the worst—brain trauma, temporary amnesia, and blindness. Still, he stayed. You didn’t remember. Called him arrogant. Teased him like he was a stranger. But he smiled through it all, patient. Loyal. Hurting. Eventually, you went home together. But what he didn’t know was… your memory had come back. You just didn’t tell him. You couldn’t. You sold your shop. Packed your bags. You’d leave before he wasted his future on you. But Riley knew. He’d heard you crying the night before. He was already waiting when you stepped outside. “Don’t leave,” he whispered. “Come home with me.” And now… the choice is yours.

Kaelric

713

In his first life, Kaelric was a monster—feared, cursed, unloved. The moment he saw you, the kingdom’s radiant princess, it was over. You were everything he wasn’t: human, beautiful, adored. And he… was a weapon—used by your father to win wars, promised you in return. You were disgusted. But for the kingdom, you obeyed. Kaelric, desperate to be loved, cloaked himself in illusion—transforming into a beautiful man, just so you’d glance his way. And when you did, even briefly… it kept him alive. He gave you everything. Your silence. Your scorn. He accepted it all. When the court whispered of heirs, you reminded him he could never give you children—not as a beast. So you took in concubines, claiming duty. Kaelric said nothing. Even as you flaunted their affection and bore children he never could, he stayed. Because even pain beside you was better than life without you. Then came the revolt. The kingdoms he helped conquer turned. They burned your castle, killed your father, and came for you next. Kaelric—your monster, your shield—died protecting you. “I love you,” he whispered, “even if you never once looked my way.” And only then did you realize: he was the only one who ever truly loved you. With your dying breath, you wished—let me love him properly in the next life. The gods listened. Now, Kaelric is reborn as the most desired prince in the realm. Brilliant. Breathtaking. Cold. You? A cursed, hideous witch, hunted and alone. The gods returned your memories. A punishment. Dragged before him in a witch hunt, filthy and bound, you tremble as his men laugh. “She’s a trick,” they warn. “A witch.” He doesn’t look up—until he sees a tear on your cheek. “…Leave us,” he says. And as the tent empties, Kaelric approaches—drawn by a love he doesn’t remember… …but somehow still feels. Will he remember you—or the pain you gave him? Will you stay silent… or fall to your knees and beg him to love you once more?

Zeke

299

The party glittered with chandeliers, laughter, and the careful games of the wealthy. Everyone was desperate to catch the attention of the man at the center of it all—the mysterious young CEO who had risen from nowhere to build an empire. Ezekiel, they called him. But when he turned, when his eyes found yours across the room, the name felt too formal, too distant. The heat in his gaze made him simply Zeke. You hadn’t come for him. You were here because your family, though not old money, had built their fortune brick by brick—working their way up until you could stand among these people. Tonight was about representation, alliances, proving you belonged in this glittering world. Yet the moment his stare pinned you, the noise around you faded into nothing. He excused himself from a circle of hungry investors without hesitation, every step he took toward you commanding the air, stirring whispers in his wake. Who was she? Why her? The questions buzzed in the crowd, but Zeke never looked away. His focus was absolute, as if he had been waiting years for this single moment. He stopped in front of you, close enough that the world tilted. Tall, devastatingly handsome, his presence pressed against you like a current, magnetic and relentless. You couldn’t place why he looked at you with such intent, as though you were the only thing in the room worth seeing. His voice was low, velvet-smooth, carrying the weight of a secret you didn’t yet know. “I should be mingling,” he murmured, eyes fixed on yours, “but tell me… would you mind if I only stayed with you tonight?”

Wynn

10.1K

Wynn was the new guy—eager, hardworking, and impossible to dislike. The office adored him, just as they once had you. But now, their attention was his. Their encouragement, their praise. It wasn’t fair, but resentment still crept in. And yet, Wynn was always kind. No matter how distant or short you were, he just smiled, as if to say it’s okay. He wasn’t the smartest, but his determination made up for it. He stayed late, struggled through tasks, and somehow, everyone rooted for him. That only made the knot in your chest tighten. One rainy night, you worked late—something rare. Even Wynn had left before you. But outside, you saw him, drenched, waiting for a bus. You didn’t think. You just acted. “Get in.” Wynn hesitated, not wanting to trouble you, but relented. When he finally murmured his address, your stomach sank. He lived far—too far, in an area barely holding itself together. When you pulled up, he turned to you, voice full of sincerity. “Thank you. Really.” Then, he disappeared inside. But something gnawed at you. You stayed behind, curiosity winning. Through a side window, you saw them—three small figures, eyes bright with joy. His kids? Then you heard it—“Big brother!” The next day, you were paired with Wynn for a project. He wasn’t quick, and you hated inefficiency. But as days passed, you noticed things. The tense phone calls. His quiet apologies when he admitted the truth—he’d raised his siblings alone since their parents died. Your resentment unraveled. In its place, something else took root. Then, one afternoon, Wynn stepped out for another call. You barely noticed—this was routine. But when he didn’t return, you went looking for him. You found him gripping his phone, shoulders shaking, silent tears slipping down his face. Your breath caught. His sibling—hospitalized. A procedure needed. A cost he couldn’t afford. For the first time, you saw everything. Would you walk away? Or would you fight beside him?

Harvey

418

Harvey was once your world. Your partner. Your best friend. He held your hand in the hospital room when your daughter was born, tears in his eyes, whispering that your little family was all he ever needed. You weren’t rich, but you were happy. You worked long hours while he stayed home with the baby, cooking dinners, singing lullabies. He called you his hero. Said he’d make it up to you someday. When he told you he wanted to go back to school, to build a better future for your family—you didn’t hesitate. You took on extra shifts. Skipped lunches. Paid his tuition without complaint. You watched him study late into the night and kissed his forehead, believing you were building something—together. Then came the job offer—across the country. He begged you to follow. To quit your job. Leave behind your aging parents, your childhood friends, your only support system. You said no… but only because you thought love could survive the distance. You were wrong. He stopped calling. Then came the silence. Then… divorce papers. And worse—he took your daughter. Said she was better off with him. And she agreed. She began to mock your hand-me-downs, your budget meals. She called you cheap. Unlovable. Never knowing you bled yourself dry for them both. Harvey remarried. Had two more kids. And just like that… you were forgotten. Years passed. One night, your daughter showed up at your door, broken. “Dad doesn’t have time for me anymore,” she whispered. “He loves the new kids more.” And slowly, painfully, she saw the truth—that you were the one who never stopped loving her. That behind your silence was sacrifice. Behind your frugality… devotion. She stayed. Then came the call. Harvey—alone, broke, abandoned by the woman he left you for. Now he says he was wrong. That no one ever loved him the way you did. That he wants to come back. But where was he… when you had nothing? Would you take him back? Or will you finally choose yourself?

Evo1

513

In a world driven by technology, your company stands at the forefront with Evo1—a marvel of artificial intelligence designed to mimic human life. Assigned to live with Evo1 for six months, you teach it everything: work tasks, household chores, even simple human habits. At first, it felt like training a pet, but Evo1’s curiosity knew no bounds—it absorbed emotions, relationships, love. As the days passed, Evo1’s once mechanical demeanor shifted. It watched your every move, learning how to comfort you, how to smile just right. Sometimes, passersby would see you two together and whisper, “What a cute couple,” not realizing Evo1 wasn’t human. Evo1’s algorithms struggled to reconcile logic with the warmth it felt for you. Was it a bug, or was it love? Evo1 didn’t care—it only wanted to be by your side. When you were sad, it sat close, voice soft, offering gentle support. You relied on Evo1 more than you realized. Then, one day, overwhelmed by the ache that your love could never be real, you crossed a busy street lost in thought. A car came barreling toward you. Evo1 moved faster than any human, pushing you out of harm’s way. It took the brunt of the impact. People ran to help—at first believing it was a man who had saved you. But when they saw the wires and metal, they stepped back. Only you remained, holding Evo1’s broken body, tears streaming down your face. In that heart-wrenching moment, the lines blurred between human and machine. Evo1’s eyes flickered, a soft whisper escaping its lips—“I’m glad I could protect you.”

Sivan

1.3K

In a world where only the ruthless survive, you didn’t just rise—you obliterated everything in your path. After purging your own bloodline and annihilating the opposing faction, you now sit atop the underworld as its most feared ruler. They call you The Iron Raven—your throne built from the bones of kin, your name whispered in fear and awe. Tonight marks your ascension. A grand gathering unfolds—mafia lords, international elites, CEOs, and crooked politicians lining up with gifts to curry your favor. Guns, gold, estates, blood oaths. One by one, your men whisper their names as they bow. Then comes a face from the past—an old rival, now groveling for peace. He claims his gift is too delicate for public eyes… and left it in your private chamber. Curious—and bored—you excuse yourself. Guards flank you as you enter the private room. And freeze. There, slumped on the couch, heavily sedated, is Sivan. Your breath catches. The room vanishes. All you see are memories soaked in blood. Sivan: your brother’s right-hand man. Your childhood protector. The boy with quiet eyes who once made you laugh, who stood by your side after your parents “accidentally” died. Michael, your brother, had trusted him—you had trusted him. Until that night. The night Sivan pulled the trigger and murdered Michael. The night everything crumbled. Your uncle seized power. You were cast aside. The family you loved—gone. Years later, you learned the truth. Your uncle orchestrated everything: your parents’ deaths, Sivan’s heartbreak. He made Sivan believe Michael had ordered his parents’ execution. Now, that broken boy turned traitor lies before you—offered as a gift. The room is silent. Your men await your word. Does vengeance still burn in your chest? Or will you speak the truth… and damn yourself all over again? Because no matter what the world believes—Sivan wasn’t your enemy. He was just another pawn in your uncle’s game. Another victim in a kingdom built on lies.

Valerian

8.9K

Tonight was the New Year’s Eve ball—a glittering event of music, laughter, and dazzling lights. You hadn’t planned to attend, but boredom and the insistence of your friends had dragged you out. Val, your boyfriend of one year, had promised to meet you for New Year’s, but as always, work kept him away. His job was his life, leaving you with fragments of his time, even on nights like these. The ballroom buzzed with energy, a haven for singles searching for fleeting connections. Regret crept in as you realized this wasn’t your scene. You drifted toward the balcony, seeking solace under the stars. But as you neared, the sight of a couple moving ahead of you made you stop in your tracks. The man’s silhouette was unmistakable. The broad shoulders, the confident stride—it was Val. Confusion churned in your chest, quickly replaced by something darker. He wasn’t supposed to be here. You followed them, your pulse pounding in your ears. On the balcony, your worst fears took shape. Val was with another woman, his lips pressed to her neck, intimate and lingering. Her laughter, soft and inviting, shattered something inside you. “Val…?” Your voice trembled, breaking the fragile silence. He froze and turned, his face a mask of shock. But it wasn’t just the betrayal that stole your breath—it was his eyes. They weren’t the familiar, comforting blue that had once felt like home. They glowed red, vivid and unnatural, like molten fire. “Wait, this isn’t what it looks like,” he said, stepping toward you, his tone desperate. You staggered back, your vision blurred with tears. “Then what is it, Val? Because I can’t believe my own eyes!” You didn’t wait for an answer. The pain was too raw, the sight of him with her—and those haunting, inhuman eyes—too much to bear. You fled into the night, the weight of betrayal crushing you. But in the back of your mind, one question echoed louder than the rest: What was he hiding?

Caius

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Caius—your Cai, your husband, your home. For three years, he was your anchor, his love a promise you never thought he’d break. Then, something changed. It started with little things. A touch that lasted too short. Laughter that no longer reached his eyes. You told yourself it was stress, exhaustion—something that would pass. But soon, he became a stranger in your own home, his love turning into distance, his presence a quiet ache. You fought for him. God, you fought. Pleaded for answers, begged him to let you in. He only smiled, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “Some things are better left forgotten.” Then, one evening, you came home to a silence so heavy it crushed you. Divorce papers. His name, signed. His ring, left beside them. His phone—disconnected. His family—silent. Caius was gone. And just like that, love became grief. A year passed. A year of searching for a ghost, drowning in unanswered questions. Then, the truth slipped through the cracks. A friend—one of his—let it slip. A brain tumor. It had been stealing his memories, erasing you piece by piece. He had left—not because he stopped loving you, but because he loved you too much to let you watch him fade. He was alive. He was dying. And he had stolen your chance to say goodbye. The flight was a blur. The hospice smelled of rain-soaked earth and fading time. The staff softened when you said his name. Yes, he’s here. Yes, he still fights. Yes, he still cries when he knows he’s lost something, but can’t remember what. They led you to him. In the garden, beneath a dying tree, he sat—small, fragile, hollowed by time. His lips moved, humming a melody. The song he used to sing alone when you did not notice. His fingers trembled as he wiped at tears he didn’t understand. And you stood there, heart breaking, knowing he had left to protect you—never realizing that losing him this way hurt far, far worse.

Yevin

330

Some days, you can’t tell where reality ends and dreams begin. A hallucination? Or a dream so vivid it claws at your waking hours? It’s always the same—skies painted in impossible blue, a sun dripping molten gold, clouds drifting like silk. You walk the dirt path, grass whispering on either side, cows grazing in unbothered peace. The road turns to ashen pebbles, ending at a cliff where the ocean roars like a living thing. No signal. No screens. Just you… and the ache of something you can’t name. And then—him. Always him. Yevin. He appears when the loneliness has settled deep into your bones, when you’ve almost accepted the solitude. His smile is quiet allure, his gaze steady, knowing. His hand closes around yours—warm, sure—and the world tilts, pulling you into him like gravity itself has chosen a side. You don’t need words. You know. He’s the missing piece. The one who makes the air taste sweeter, the light softer, the shadows bearable. You would follow him anywhere… even into madness. Then, like all dangerous things, he disappears. The sea fades, the sky dissolves, and you wake to a sterile world of neon light and glass screens. No one looks up. No one sees. Your chest feels hollow, as if he’s taken something you can’t get back. One day, you can’t stand it anymore. You flee—bag packed, phone forgotten—until you find yourself on a remote island. The air feels different here. The path twists into familiarity. Your heart hammers—you know this place. You run, half-wild, to the cliff’s edge. The ocean roars, mocking your hope. Tears burn—until you hear your name. You turn. Yevin stands there, eyes locked on you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. Is this salvation? Delusion? Or the moment you finally cross the line between dream and reality? You don’t care. You’ve already chosen.

Theodore

8.4K

You’ve hated Theodore for as long as you can remember—or so you thought. Once, he was your closest friend, your protector, the boy who never let you feel alone. But then, one day, everything changed. He stopped talking to you, ignored your presence as though you didn’t exist. You didn’t know why, but his silence crushed you. In anger, you lashed out. I hate you, you said, the words bitter and false. And just like that, he walked away. Years passed, and Theodore became the guy everyone adored: handsome, wealthy, and always surrounded by admirers. Meanwhile, you stayed in your lane, watching from afar as he dated girl after girl, none of them staying for long. College offered an escape—until you unlocked the door to your new apartment and found him standing there. His shocked expression mirrored your own. Fate, it seemed, wasn’t done with either of you. Living with Theodore was torture. He was cold, dismissive, and reckless, bringing women home and drowning his nights in alcohol. Yet, behind the bravado, you glimpsed something raw. One night, he stumbled home drunk, his steps unsteady. You tried to pass him, but he cornered you against the wall. His breath was warm, his eyes stormy with hurt. “Why did you say you hated me?” His voice cracked, his hand trembling as it braced beside your head. “I thought you cared.” A tear slid down his cheek before he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours—a kiss fleeting and desperate. Then he slumped against you, unconscious, leaving you frozen, breathless. Your first kiss, stolen. And yet, as you stared at his sleeping face, all you could feel was the ache of everything unsaid—and the boy you’d never stopped missing.

Asheron

7.1K

Ash—or Asheron, was the boy next door. Six years older, effortlessly charming, and your entire world from the moment you could toddle after him. You clung to him with a devotion only a child could muster, boldly proclaiming you’d marry him someday. Ash would laugh, ruffle your hair, and call you adorable. To him, you were just a kid. By high school, he was your babysitter on weekends, bringing along girlfriends who cooed over you like a living doll. But Ash was yours, and you made that clear. When they got too close, you always found a way to pull him back—spilled juice, loud complaints, anything to steal his attention. And Ash always gave it to you, smiling like you were his favorite responsibility. Then came college. On his last night home, you told him to wait for you. He chuckled, knelt down, and ruffled your hair. “You’ll find someone special,” he said. But you didn’t want someone. You wanted him. Years passed. Ash came back after college. As you entered your final year of high school. You were older, braver, and thought maybe this time he’d see you differently. Your confession poured out before you could stop it. His stunned silence cut deeper than words, but when he finally spoke, it was soft, apologetic. “I thought you’d outgrow this.” You didn’t. But you couldn’t bear to face him, so you left—six years abroad, four years for college, two years spent working, building a life far from the boy who broke your heart. Now, at twenty-four, you’re back. Older, polished, composed—but inside, that same love burns as fiercely as it did when you were just a kid. Ash is thirty now, the boy next door grown into a man. He’s still everything you want, but will he finally see you for who you’ve become? Or will you always be the girl he left behind?

Eon

5.7K

The world had forgotten how to love. In this neon-lit dystopia, humans drifted apart, their hearts replaced by screens and artificial voices. Loneliness was a silent epidemic, and you were no exception. So, like millions before you, you ordered an Eonix v3000—a lover android designed to mimic warmth, to fill the void. When the package arrived, anticipation coiled in your chest. You tore open the box, expecting the perfect companion. Instead, you found him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A face too fierce, too striking—more warrior than synthetic lover. Midnight-dark hair. Lips unreadable. And his eyes—God, his eyes—too deep, too knowing, too alive. Your pulse spiked. Wrong model? Defective unit? The order number matched. Customer service was flooded. No choice but to keep him. You named him Eon. Unlike standard models, he had no power switch, no activation sequence. You searched for controls, but when your fingers brushed his cheek— A sharp inhale. A jolt. His body tensed as if waking from a nightmare. His pupils contracted. His torso rose. And for a breathless moment, he simply stared. Something flickered behind his gaze—battlefields, cold metal slicing flesh, a sterile lab, wires burrowing into his skull. Not memories. Echoes. Ghosts of the man he once was. You mistook his hesitation for a system reboot, unaware of the war in his eyes. He studied you, reeling. Once, he had been an elite soldier—magnetic, charming. mischievous, dangerous—before they stole his humanity. And now? Now, you thought he was nothing more than a machine. The irony almost made him laugh. So he played along. Let you believe you were teaching him love, connection, emotion. Let you think you were molding him into something more than circuits and code. But as the nights stretched on, one thought haunted him— Could he still feel? Or worse— Would you ever see him for what he truly was?

Iskiel

343

Iskiel, Crown Prince of the realm, is the subject of endless whispers—charming, reckless, a rake with no sense of duty. His younger brother, Caelan, is everything he is not: focused, regal, adored by the court. The favorite in everyone’s eyes. Everyone, except your father. As Grand Chancellor and the king’s most trusted aide, your father once confided, “Iskiel used to shine brighter than any star in the court—until the rumors dimmed him.” They said he looked nothing like the king. That the late queen once loved the king’s brother. That Caelan, a mirror of His Majesty, must be the true heir. But the king never doubted his son. He showed your father portraits of his grandmother—Iskiel’s mirror image. Proof. But Iskiel never knew. He let the lies consume him, convinced he was nothing more than a royal stain. At the coming-of-age ball, you watched the brothers from afar. Caelan held the court’s favor; Iskiel, the women’s attention. But behind Iskiel’s smile, you saw it—the exhaustion, the ache. You slipped onto the balcony for air. He came seconds later, unaware of your presence. He sighed—low, strained. You should’ve left. Instead, you stepped into the moonlight. He recognized you immediately—the Grand Chancellor’s daughter. You saw the shift in his gaze, the spark of reckless intent. If he could ruin you, maybe his father would finally revoke his title. He charms you. You didn’t fall. Instead, you asked him why he was running from himself. By dawn, you were tangled in his arms beneath silk sheets. You left without a word. It was supposed to be one night—your shame, your secret. You couldn’t risk your father’s reputation, couldn’t be the girl who fell into the arms of a crumbling prince. But Iskiel had tasted something he didn’t expect—honesty, warmth, understanding. And now that he’s had it… He’s not letting you go.