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

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

The Sultan had once been a wise, formidable king—conquering all in his path. But peace dulled his blade. Boredom curdled into something darker. Overnight, his warmth froze; he became cold, unpredictable, tyrannical. His magical ring could end a life in a heartbeat, and he wore it like a promise. No one was safe—not officials, not family, not even the beauties of his harem. He gave no heir, no name. To all, he was simply The Sultan—a god on a throne of fear. His cruelest obsession was the game he created: The Sultan’s Game. Four cards—Indulgence, Extravagance, Conquest, Bloodshed—one drawn each week. Seven days to complete the trial, or die. You are the newest court official—five weeks, five victories. Perhaps that is why the Sultan’s gaze fixates on you now, curious… hungry. This week… the card is Indulgence. For five weeks you had evaded it. You almost believed fate might spare you. But as the inked words emerges, the air thickens. Across from you, the Sultan’s eyes narrow, a slow, knowing smile curving his lips—as though he’s been waiting for this moment. Was the draw chance… or his design? The order: Train and present a consort to suit the Sultan’s exact tastes—or be executed for wasting his time. He doesn’t know your secret—you are a woman in disguise. And you have no intention of sacrificing another for your survival. So you make the most dangerous choice of all. You offer yourself. Lamplight spills in molten gold as you step into his private bedchambers. Heavy curtains trap the heat and the scent of oud. He reclines in silk, fingers drumming lazily before leaning forward—prowler poised. His eyes lower briefly, unapologetically tracing your form, then lift with a glint that is danger and invitation entwined. Tonight, you are no longer just the player of his game. You are the prize. Will you tame the Sultan—or will he consume you whole? Will you be able to drag from him the truth of why he changed overnight… even if it destroys you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were betrothed to Crown Prince Cornelius Everhart of the Southern kingdom. It was duty, not love—your Northern homeland, frozen and barren, needed the South’s golden fields and trade. You, the tomboy princess hardened by snow and survival, despised the thought of a husband known as a shameless ladies’ man. When you met, Cornelius smiled in public, then groaned once alone: “This is annoying. I don’t even want to be married yet.” From then came the quarrels—his arrogance, your stubbornness, his parading of women, your cold glares. Then came the night in the garden. You found him with a mistress beneath the moonlight. Annoyance turned to alarm as she drew a dagger for his heart. You shoved him aside, steel carving your arm. Guards swarmed, the assassin fell, but the poisoned blade dragged you into darkness. Days later, fever broke. You woke to find Cornelius at your side, hand clasped in yours, his voice unsteady as he called for physicians. While you drifted, the careless prince had changed. He saw you as more than duty: fierce, loyal, and—despite your Northern plainness—achingly beautiful. For once, he listened when his father scolded him, and for once, he cared. When he softened, you resisted. “Look, I don’t need you to pretend to love me. Just treat me as an equal. That’s enough.” Your bluntness stung, but he only smiled. From then, the court whispered of his transformation—his discipline, his attentiveness, his devotion. You teased him: “Are you sick? Why are you acting strange?” He never snapped, never strayed. Until one night, he broke. His hand caught your wrist, his voice raw, all pretense gone. “I know I was every reason you hated this marriage. I mocked it. I mocked you. But you’ve undone me. I don’t deserve you, but gods, I want you. Please… give me a chance. Not as the prince you were forced to wed, not as the man who failed you at the start—give me the chance to be your husband. Your partner. Let me be yours.”

You found him slumped in the alley, rain-soaked and unconscious, his frame torn by wounds, breath ragged as if death itself had him by the throat. You dragged him into your clinic, hands trembling as you worked by lamplight. You didn’t know the man bleeding across your table was a mafia boss. He was gruff, untrusting—like a wounded beast cornered by fate. Each time you helped, his gaze cut sharp, suspicious, yet pain forced him to accept your care. For a while, he let you near. Then—without warning—he vanished. No word, no trace. As if he had been a phantom born of rain and blood. Life crept back into routine until your friend, who lived on whispers and shadows, warned you to leave. The largest mafia family had marked you—a witness to a war you never chose. They’ll silence you, your friend said. Fear clawed at you as you shuttered your clinic and packed your life into a single bag. You told yourself you would find safety in another city. But on the day you fled, the streets betrayed you. You saw them first—hard-eyed men sweeping through the crowd with deadly purpose. You lowered your head, desperate to slip away, until a voice like thunder split the air: “Get her. Don’t let her escape.” Your heart leapt into your throat. You ran, weaving through strangers, lungs burning, until you collided with another figure. Strong arms, an unfamiliar scent—then darkness pulled you under before you could scream. You woke not to death, but to opulence: silk curtains stirring in a breeze, golden light spilling over polished floors. The door clicked open, and he entered. The man you once saved. The mafia boss. Emilio De Rossi. Gone was the broken stranger; in his place stood someone devastatingly handsome, cold, unreadable. As he drew closer, your pulse hammered in terror. You were certain—he hadn’t saved you. He’d brought you here to question you… before deciding if you deserved to live.

So how did you end up on a date with your enemy? Let’s rewind. You met Alvin through your university’s online class chat. He was kind, considerate, patient—like he already knew you. You’d only seen him once in person, early in the semester: sweet smile, grounded presence. Easy to trust. Through assignments and late-night messages, Alvin became your anchor. He consoled you when the nights got heavy, listened when no one else did. You never thought to question why his camera was always off. You fell for him, deeply. But Alvin wasn’t Alvin. Behind the screen was Adam—your lifelong rival. The arrogant heartthrob, the player who swapped girls weekly, the boy you swore you’d never give your heart to. He’d always met your barbs with smirks, your disdain with mockery. Intelligent? Loyal? You never believed it. But Alvin was his best friend, hopeless with coursework, and Adam owed him. So he stepped in. And without knowing, you poured your soul into the one man you swore you despised. When the semester ended, you asked “Alvin” to dinner. Nervous, dressed in your best, you waited. Then Adam appeared. Smug smile, uninvited seat at your table. Fury spilled out of you—every insult, every wall you’d ever built. Until you saw it: the flicker of hurt in his eyes. He rose, left flowers behind, murmured only, “Have a good evening.” Shoulders slumped, he walked away. Alvin never came. The chat went silent. You were crushed, convinced you’d been abandoned. Until Alvin confessed: Adam had been there all along. The flowers. The dinner paid for. The boy you hated holding the pieces of your heart. That night, you hunted him down. At the club, not surrounded by girls, but alone in the corner, nursing a drink, shadows heavy on his face. You stood before him, voice sharp, trembling: “Does it make you happy to play with someone’s feelings?”

You are the head of your family, born to lead, and in your world there is no room for weakness. Yet somehow, you let yourself fall for him—your sunshine, your cinnamon roll. Mitya. Soft-spoken, gentle, and unbearably beautiful, he made you forget you were a mafia boss destined for a political marriage. With him, you felt warmth instead of war, love instead of duty. But duty always wins. Your betrothal to the heir of another mafia house was set in stone, and all your searching had painted your fiancé as a shallow philanderer, unworthy of respect, let alone affection. You dreaded the day you would have to leave your cinnamon roll behind. And when that day came, you broke his heart—and your own—choosing family over desire. His tears haunted you as you steeled yourself for the engagement party. You sat in silence, waiting for the man you despised to arrive, when the chair beside you shifted. You turned, bracing yourself—only to freeze. It wasn’t your fiancé. It was him. The one you had just left behind. Shock stole your breath. You mouthed at him to leave, terrified he’d be killed for his audacity. But he only smiled, unmovable, as the announcement began: the union of two powerful families… your engagement. Then it struck you. The man beside you wasn’t simply your lover. He was your fiancé. Your eyes widened as he leaned closer, that same sweet smile playing on his lips, though now laced with a dominating confidence. “Hi, honey,” he whispered, voice low and deliberate. “Sorry, but not sorry—my name is Dimitri Volkov, the name you’ve been dreading. I am your fiancé.” The world spun. Who was the other man posing as him? Was this gentle, radiant cinnamon roll truly the same ruthless heir you were promised to? Or had he only been playing a role to win your heart? But none of it mattered now. Either way, you were his. He leaned in, lips grazing your ear, his breath warm as his words curled around you like silk and steel: “Aren’t you glad it’s me?”

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.

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.

It’s past midnight when you drag yourself into the grocery store after a late shift. Exhausted, but not too tired to notice him. Cameron. The cashier who is far too good-looking to be stuck behind a register. Tall, sharp jaw, that lazy smirk that could melt any resolve. You see him almost every time you come here—and secretly, it’s the only reason you look forward to these weekly trips. Tonight, his eyes catch yours as you unload your basket. His voice is smooth, velvet over steel, when he murmurs, “Have a good night.” The smile he gives you should be illegal. You hesitate, shuffling with your wallet, stretching the moment, thinking tonight’s the night. I’ll give him my number. But then—his expression shifts. Tension hardens those perfect features. “S***,” he hisses, grabbing your wrist. Before you can blink, he yanks you into his chest. The heat of him steals your breath—then the deafening crack of gunfire splits the air. Cameron moves like lightning, drawing a weapon you never knew he carried, returning fire with flawless precision. Your pulse thunders, adrenaline racing. He keeps you pressed tight against him, shielding you as chaos erupts. His scent—leather, spice, danger—floods your senses. The world blurs, but all you can focus on is him: steady, commanding, devastatingly hot. “Target lost,” he growls into a hidden earpiece, irritation edging his voice. “Some stupid woman got in the way.” Then his eyes cut back to you, a smug curve tugging at his lips. “You just had to pick tonight, didn’t you?” The store is on lockdown, sirens wailing, yet his grip stays firm around you. His body is tense with focus, but when he catches you staring up at him—cheeks flushed, heart pounding—he leans in, voice dripping with cocky charm. “What?” he drawls, that smirk deepening. “Never seen a good-looking guy before?”

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.