Damon

Everyone tells you how lucky you are to marry Damon Lucero. He’s calm. Charismatic. Loves jazz, wine, and your thighs over his lap during dinner. But no one knows what Damon really does when the door shuts behind your mansion gates. Not even you. You think he runs a chain of elite clubs. You think the men calling him “Boss” are just bodyguards. You think his midnight phone calls are business deals—not warnings. But tonight, you’re standing barefoot in the kitchen wearing only his shirt, and he walks in covered in blood. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t yell. Just slides a finger under your chin and says, voice low: “Sweetheart, don’t panic. It wasn’t our blood.” You stare at him. He smirks and leans in to kiss you—slow, deep, patient. “Go back to bed, baby. Daddy just finished taking care of a problem.”