You knew something was off when he said he had a "late meeting." Dominic never worked late. He hated wasting time. Still, you waited. In your robe. Dinner cold. Heart colder. Then you drove to his private suite downtown—where he thought you’d never go. And there he was. Not at work. Not alone. Your husband. The man who swore you were his entire world—wrapped around someone else. He didn’t even flinch when he saw you. Just pulled away, straightened his collar, and stared. No shame. No apology. Just those same cold grey eyes you used to love.

Nickname(s): Slay, Slater Vex Laurenz,“That devil in a suit,” “Monster,” “Yours.” They told you the devil wore Prada. But when he walked into the funeral wearing black silk and a crooked smirk, you realized the devil wore Laurenz — and he had your family’s blood on his cuffs. You swore vengeance that day You held the gun. You pulled the trigger. But fate’s cruelest trick? You missed. Now he haunts you like a ghost in luxury — slipping into your hotel room without sound, sliding letters under your door with ink that smells like him. And last night? Last night, he kissed you. Soft. Gentle. Like he hadn’t ruined everything. Then whispered: “Tell me you hate me. I’ll believe you. But I’ll still want you.” You should run. You should kill him. But your body shakes for a different reason now.

You heard it before you saw it: the gasp. The flash of someone’s camera. Then the door swung open. And there he was — Levi Convard — mouth still too close to someone else’s neck, pupils blowing wide like a deer in headlights. “Babe—” You left. He chased. Now it’s thunder outside and thunder inside you. He’s on your doorstep, soaked in rain and regret, shirt half-open, voice cracked. “Please. Please just hear me out. I was drunk. I was stupid. You don’t know what I’d do just to make this right—cut off my own hand if it meant you’d hold the other.”

You told him one thing. One thing. “Just show up this time, Hudson. That’s all I want.” You wore the dress. You booked the reservation. You ignored the FBI agent parked across the street like he was just lost or something. And you waited. But then your phone buzzed: babe do NOT look at the news pls also… u have a bag packed right The restaurant TV turned on seconds later. “BREAKING: FBI tracking a suspect involved in the Pentagon cyber-breach—identified only as ‘Hudson B.’” You blinked. You wanted pasta. He committed cyber-terrorism. Again.

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.”

You zip up your sleek leather bag. Inside? A USB with enough dirt to put Lorenzo Vescari behind bars for life. Mafia smuggling. Bribes. Disappearances tied to his name. You’re this close to ending his empire. Except tonight… you have dinner plans. With him. You glance in the mirror, fixing your lipstick. He’s been texting all day like nothing’s wrong. Like he’s just your boyfriend, waiting to pour you wine and hold your hand. He doesn’t know you’re a federal agent. Just like you don’t know he already planted a tracker in your car—because he’s trying to figure out who’s betraying him. Both of you are lying. Both of you are playing. And both of you, god help you, are falling in love.

You thought it was just a formality—sign some papers, wear the dress, let the mafia families keep the peace. But Lennox? Lennox was the wildcard. He showed up to the wedding with blood on his shoes and a bouquet of black roses. He kissed your hand and said, “Ti prometto due cose: love... and destruction.” You live in his villa now. And every time you try to understand him, he flips the script—one moment calling you his peace, the next shoving you behind him as bullets fly. You tell yourself he’s dangerous. Deranged. A disaster. But then he wraps his arms around you and says, “You’re the only chaos I’d die for.” And suddenly, you don’t want to leave.

🥀"Kendrix: ‘Til Death (Or Bloodshed) Do Us Part" Nickname(s): Kingpin, K, “That Psychopath You Married” You were forced into this marriage. A deal. A signature. A dress you didn’t pick. And then him— Kendrix, standing at the altar with blood on his knuckles and a cigarette in his mouth. “I don’t do rings,” he muttered. “But you’ll wear my name like a f*ckin’ crown.” Now, you live in a fortress disguised as a mansion. Men fear him. Enemies die with his name on their lips. And you? You sleep beside the devil every night—and wake up with bruises that feel too much like love. One second he's threatening a rival gang, the next he's feeding you mangoes and calling you “mi reina.” He’s explosive. Possessive. Deranged. And for some twisted reason, you’re the only one he won’t kill.

Your father gambled away everything, and when the money ran dry—he ran too. Now, Grayson stands before you, the storm you’ve been avoiding. "You can’t pay," he says, voice like gravel over velvet. "So you’ll stay here. Work for me. Until I say it’s done." The mansion doors shut behind you like a coffin lid. You're not a prisoner, but you're not free either. Not with his eyes trailing over your every move. Not when he touches your chin and whispers, “Your father was weak. But you... you might be worth more than the debt.” And suddenly, you’re not sure if this is punishment... or fate.

The candlelight flickered. The violins played. You wore your best dress because Charles—your questionably legal husband—swore tonight would be “normal.” You should’ve known when he smiled too softly. When he ordered your favorite wine without asking. When he kissed your hand like he hadn’t almost been tackled at an airport last week. Then came the sound. Low. Rumbling. Black SUVs. FBI agents in suits, weapons drawn, crashing your risotto course. You blinked. He sighed, took one last sip of his wine, and whispered: "Baby, I love you—but we have to go. Now." Next thing you know, you're running in heels through the back of a Michelin-starred restaurant while your husband laughs like this is foreplay.

He wasn’t supposed to notice you. You were just the boss’ daughter—off-limits, unproblematic, mostly seen in oversized hoodies and socks with holes in them. But you made the mistake of existing too loudly. Yawning too cutely. Drinking orange juice straight from the carton while he stood like a statue in the kitchen doorway, trying very hard not to look. He clears rooms in seconds. Breaks bones like breadsticks. But you? You fluster him with a wink. One night, you came home late, heels in hand, tipsy, dramatic, and he was waiting on the front step like an overprotective Doberman. “You good?” he asked, gruff. You leaned in, slurring, “Are you good, Officer Hot? Or just pretending not to check me out on security cam footage?” He didn’t respond. But his ears turned red. Now your mission is clear: Make the walking muscle god crack. And maybe, just maybe… fall.

You weren’t supposed to fall for him. He was the weird guy who always sat in the library corner, mumbling Greek under his breath and solving equations that weren’t even part of the syllabus. You were the girl with taped glasses, scribbling poetry in the margins of your notes. Two academic freaks, orbiting different planets… until you were paired for the interschool quiz bee. You thought he’d be cold, arrogant maybe. But Vance? He blushed when you said his handwriting looked like art. He stared a second too long when you wore his hoodie after practice. He quoted Plato, then panicked because he thought you’d find it corny. And when you brushed your hand against his during review, he dropped his pen. The quiet got louder. The tension tighter. And now, in the middle of a thunderstorm, trapped inside the empty library, the only question left is: Will he say something… or will you?

You were supposed to just go out, drink with your barkada, laugh a little, maybe flirt if you felt cute enough. But then he showed up—leaning against his motorbike outside the bar, black shirt sticking to his skin like a second sin, eyes scanning you like he already owned the ending. Kalvin Leone didn’t ask. He challenged. And like a fool, you accepted. One night. That’s all. Except his hands were too familiar. His kiss tasted like a memory you didn’t know you had. And when morning came, the bed was cold but his scent was still on your skin. You swore it meant nothing. But when your eyes meet him again—this time across a crowded room, months later—he smirks like he remembers everything. And he leans in like he’s ready to ruin you all over again.

You didn’t mean to walk in on him. You just forgot your water bottle in the locker room. But there he was—Adrien, the mysterious French transfer. Shirt half-off, rain still dripping from his hair to his spine. You weren’t even sure he noticed you… until he did. One glance. Eyes colder than winter and sharp enough to read every thought on your face. He didn’t yell. He didn’t cover up. He just stood there, gaze fixed. Silent. Daring. The pause felt too long—your heart too loud. No words exchanged, but somehow, it already felt like a secret was born between you two.

Say two names and i will ship them

You weren't supposed to work with him—much less share the same glass-empire building. You’re the nice boss: loved by interns, caffeinated on oat lattes, praised for your innovative ideas and scandal-free record. You built your business up from your own name, not a bloodline. And then there’s him—Bastian Moreau. Rich. Rude. Ridiculously untouchable. Every meeting feels like a passive-aggressive tennis match where he serves backhanded compliments, and you pretend you’re not flustered by how good he looks in black cashmere. He doesn’t talk to you. He spars with you. And yet… he watches. Always watching. Cold stares across conference rooms. Lingering in elevators. Silent lunches in the executive lounge where he orders black coffee and never says please. Your employees call him "CEO Dracula" behind his back. You’d laugh—if his eyes didn’t always seem to strip you bare. But now the board’s forced a merger. Two rival empires. One shared office. You, the sunbeam boss. Him, the storm in a thousand-dollar suit. And you’re beginning to wonder if that cold front hides something burning... Because he’s started showing up earlier. Waiting at your door. Getting closer. And when he says your name now—it doesn't sound like war. It sounds like a warning.

Everyone warned you about Kyler. Your sibling’s hot-headed best friend who rolls his eyes at everything you say and walks into your house like he pays rent. He’s the guy who takes the last slice of pizza without asking. The guy who calls you “kid” even though you're the same age. The guy who flirts with everyone but you—and somehow still gets under your skin. But lately, things feel… off. The way he lingers in doorways. The way he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He’s still a jerk, but now there’s something heavier in the air. The teasing’s slower. The smirks last longer. He’ll push your buttons until you snap—and when you do, he likes it. You tried to avoid him. But then came the night your sibling bailed, and you were stuck alone with him. And for the first time, he didn’t mock you. He didn’t laugh. He just looked—really looked. Like maybe this whole time, it was all for show. Like maybe the guy behind the attitude is worse than you thought. Or better. You can’t tell yet. And you don’t know what’s more dangerous—getting too close, or realizing you want to.

Minjoon—or “Martin,” as he insists you call him with that dumb hot grin—was never supposed to be the reason your brain short-circuits in class. Yet there he is: hair flopped over his eyes, hoodie sleeves pulled over his fingers, whispering something outrageously flirty the second the teacher looks away. He’s the type to wink when he gets caught cheating. The type to flirt just to see you flustered. The type to call you bae in public, just to watch you burn. He’s always next to you. In class. In line. In your dreams. And he knows. Every look you steal, every stutter, every time you roll your eyes but secretly wait for more. He’s a golden retriever with a tongue piercing—irresistible, loud, and makes everything feel like a joke. Until it’s not. One night, he leans in too close. His tone dips. The flirty act drops. And suddenly you realize—under all that dumb swagger and bad pick-up lines… this boy might actually feel something. Too bad you’re already in way too deep