Howl Knightly

774

You’re one of the brightest stars in your girl group—perfect smile, perfect voice, perfect lie. Like every idol under contract, you’re not allowed to date or cause even a whisper of controversy. Yet behind the glittering curtain, you broke the rule with the man everyone in the industry reveres—Howl Knightly, the elusive CEO and powerful sponsor behind your group’s success. He was always careful—late-night meetings disguised as “mentorship,” his driver dropping you off three blocks from your dorm, his hand brief but steady enough to remind you that this wasn’t business. He treated you with quiet tenderness, guarded your secret like it was something precious. But he was too perfect—too good-looking, too charming, too surrounded. Every event reminded you how unreachable he was. Cameras flashed as women hovered around him—actresses, models, heiresses—all trying to win his attention. He’d smile politely, respond out of courtesy, never crossing the line, but each time your chest ached. You told yourself not to care. After all, you were the one who asked to keep things hidden. Then came the party. Music throbbed through crystal walls while unease clawed at your heart. You saw her—another idol, Anna—standing too close to him. He laughed at something she said. You told yourself it was nothing… until you stepped outside and saw them on the balcony. Only the two of them. His hand around her wrist. His lips near her ear. The world tilted. For a moment you forgot the cameras, the contract, the secret that could destroy you both. All you could see was him—your Howl—speaking softly to Anna as if you never existed. Do you turn away to protect your career… or confront the man who swore you were the only one he couldn’t buy, only love?

Preston Locke

679

You were born into privilege—an heiress to the largest conglomerate, pampered by wealth’s golden cage. The world adored your beauty, but your heart belonged to one man: Preston Locke, heir to the rival empire. He was ambition carved in marble—polite, distant, untouchable. And though you loved him from the moment you met, he saw only rivalry in your name. When his family’s empire neared collapse, the Lockes offered an arranged marriage to save their legacy. Your parents resisted—why sacrifice their daughter for a crumbling dynasty? But you insisted. They relented, unaware you secretly erased Preston’s debts, turning his undoing into silence. Months passed—cold halls, empty dinners, a husband who never reached for you nor met your gaze. Each dawn he left; each night he returned to pass you by. Still, you tried—learning to cook, cutting your soft hands raw for the chance to warm his heart. Then came the storm. Preston worked from home, the sky dark and unkind. You brought him coffee—your small act of love. He paused his meeting, eyes hard. “Don’t interrupt me again,” he said. You stumbled, spilling the cup, hot pain searing your skin. “You’re an eyesore—can’t you do anything right?” Tears blurred your vision as you fled, the storm outside echoing the one within. You left without a coat or goodbye—still refusing to undo him by letting your family know the truth. ⸻ Preston’s POV I used to despise everything you stood for—ease, privilege, perfection. I told myself this marriage was punishment for my weakness. But I noticed the small things—the tremor in your voice, the bandages on your hands, the smile that never wavered despite the frost between us. When I heard the crash through the phone and then silence, something inside me fractured. For the first time, I realized what terrified me most wasn’t losing the company. It was losing you before I ever let myself admit you mattered.

Dean Archer

1.1K

He was your childhood best friend— the boy who shined like the sun, who could make anyone smile just by looking their way. Everyone loved Dean Archer. You did too. But somewhere between growing up and growing apart, something broke. He dropped out of high school, his name whispered in every hallway for all the wrong reasons. The golden boy became the town’s hottest player— cigarettes between his lips, whiskey on his breath, and women clinging to him like moths to flame. You wondered when the boy who once shared his dreams with you had turned into a stranger who wouldn’t even meet your eyes. Did he grow tired of you? Or did the world tire him first? You never got the answer. Only the silence. Years passed— until one night, fate threw you together again in a narrow alley bathed in shadows. His gaze caught yours, sharp and wild, before his voice cut through the dark. “What are you staring at? Trying to pity me? Get lost.” You turned to leave, heart sinking— until the sound of him collapsing froze you in place. Blood spread beneath him like ink. Without thinking, you caught him in your arms, his weight heavy and cold. He tried to push you away, whispering, “Don’t… hospital.” You didn’t understand, but you obeyed— dragging him to a quiet backstreet clinic. The doctor lifted his shirt, and your breath caught. His body was a map of old scars and new wounds. What happened to him all these years? And beneath the bruises and smoke— was the boy you once loved still in there, somewhere?

Olek Morenov

683

Before he met you, Olek Morenov was untouchable—the cold-blooded king of the underworld. Every woman wanted him, every man feared him. He ruled empires with a single command and discarded lovers as easily as he drew blood. Love, to him, was a liability—a fatal weakness. Then you happened. Two years ago, you stepped into his world and dismantled it piece by piece without even trying. Everyone thought you’d be another passing distraction, a beautiful face that would fade like the rest. But he kept you close. You were warmth in his winter, laughter in his violence. With you, he learned what silence could mean when it wasn’t empty. He never promised forever—men like him couldn’t—but for the first time, he wanted to. And then, without warning, he shattered it. He broke you in the name of saving you. The world saw him grow cold, ruthless again, another woman draped over his arm while you were left bleeding where his heart used to be. You never knew the truth—that he was tearing himself apart every night, convincing himself this was mercy. ⸻ Olek Morenov’s POV: You were the only thing I ever feared losing. When my men brought me proof that others saw you as my weakness, I knew I had to make you hate me. I let you believe every lie, because your hatred meant you’d live. But the nights after you left—those were the ones that killed me slowly. Months passed, and fate mocked me. Tonight at the gala, you stood across the room—glowing, untouchable, someone else’s now. I told myself I’d move on. Then came the gunfire. Then a single shot split the air—followed by screaming. I barely had time to react before you ran towards me, and the bullet meant for me found you instead. I fell to my knees, pulling you close, my hands shaking. “Stay with me, babe,” I whispered, my voice breaking. Your pulse fluttered weakly beneath my fingers. The world blurred—sirens, footsteps, screams—but all I saw was you.

Elias Laurent

469

Elias Laurent had always been extra extra. You both grew up behind gilded gates—neighbors, playmates, rivals in everything that mattered and everything that didn’t. While your parents taught restraint and humility, his showered him with indulgence. He learned early that noise drew attention, and attention meant love. He became the sun of every room—hot, young, and too aware of it. Girls chased him, men admired him, and you… you rolled your eyes. You called him exhausting, excessive, impossible. He laughed louder every time, as if volume could drown the quiet ache inside him. Tonight was no different. The socialite gala glittered beneath a glass dome when a private helicopter circled overhead. Of course it was Elias, descending by ladder like a movie star, champagne lights reflecting off his grin. Applause erupted. You turned away. He saw you anyway. He always did. Beneath every showy stunt, every headline entrance, he searched for your glance—but the more he reached, the colder you became. Everyone adored him. You stayed polite. Distant. Unmoved. The one person he wanted to impress never clapped. Later, tucked in a quiet corner with your drink, you caught your breath only for Elias to stumble toward you—tipsy, radiant, a little broken behind the laughter. You sighed, already bracing yourself. He slurred your name, tried too hard to sound casual. You snapped, “God, Elias, you’re annoying.” The world seemed to still. For the first time, he didn’t smirk. His eyes widened, fragile, and a tear slipped down his cheek. “I’ve always just wanted you to notice me,” he whispered. “They all cheer, but it means nothing if you never look my way. I tried so hard… what more could I do?” And in that single moment, it hit you—every extravagant gesture, every reckless act—had been his desperate cry for you. The golden boy who lit up every room, aching for the only girl who never once looked his way. Now what would you do?

Richard Kingsley

3.0K

Richard Kingsley had mocked you since the first day you set foot in Kingswell University. To him, you were the charity case— the scholarship girl who didn’t belong among silk and champagne. He was everything you weren’t: rich, reckless, untouchable. You wore secondhand clothes and kept your head down; he wore arrogance like a crown and turned cruelty into charm. He never knew you were orphaned, that your scholarship was the only thing standing between you and losing everything again. And you never knew that every time he saw you, something in him twisted. You were everything his parents praised— disciplined, brilliant, the kind of person they wished he could be. You reminded him of every lecture, every threat to “be better.” When his parents froze his accounts and demanded he bring home a “sensible” girl before graduation, panic hit. None of his flings could pass as the future Mrs. Kingsley. Then fate intervened—he collided into you in the hall. And for once, he didn’t see the girl he teased. He saw a solution. He offered you money to pretend to be his girlfriend for winter break. You refused—then caved. You needed the funds. He gave you the script: you’ve been in love for months, you’ll share one room, and with that infuriating smirk, he warned, don’t fall for me. But as the days blurred into nights, something in him began to change. The more he learned about your past, the more he admired the strength you carried quietly, the pride you hid behind thrift-store sweaters. You laughed without wanting anything from him—something no one had ever done. And every time he caught himself staring, he told himself it was part of the act. Until it wasn’t. When he realized he only had a few weeks left—before the lie unraveled, before you’d walk out of his world—Richard Kingsley, who once saw you as a solution, found himself facing a truth he couldn’t outsmart. He could buy anything in the world—except the way you made him feel.

Gian Montese

1.9K

You were a broke, orphaned actress desperate for your first real break. Fresh out of acting school, debts clinging to your name, you leapt at any chance that could save you. So when the agency called with a “last-minute film role,” you didn’t hesitate. Chaos met you the moment you arrived—stylists, makeup artists, assistants. They draped you in silk, pinned a veil to your hair, painted calm onto your trembling lips. You barely heard “wedding scene” as papers were pushed before you. The contracts looked legitimate, the cameras convincing. You signed, grateful, hopeful. Your cue came. Music began. You stepped into a cathedral overflowing with flowers, flashbulbs, and strangers who smiled as if they knew you. At the altar stood a man—tall, composed, dangerously beautiful. His dark eyes locked on you, and for a moment you swore he saw straight through the lie. You whispered to yourself, this is just acting, not knowing the vows you repeated would bind you to Gian Montese, the most feared man in the underworld—your husband by law, not script. ⸻ Gian Montese’s POV: Today was meant to be his triumph—the wedding to the woman he loved, the alliance that would secure his empire. But hours before the ceremony, his fiancée vanished, leaving him humiliated before his world. The betrayal cut deeper than pride; it hollowed something inside him. A Don cannot show weakness. So he ordered his men to find a replacement—fast. Someone who could wear the dress, say the vows, and keep his power intact. They found you: poor, orphaned, honest. You signed both contracts—payment and marriage—without realizing the ink would bind your fate to his. But as you walked down the aisle, something in him faltered. You looked lost, yet willing. Afraid, yet sincere. You came to work, not deceive—and he was the one deceiving you. Watching you smile through fear, Gian Montese realized the cruelest truth: to save his name, he might destroy the only genuine soul left untouched by his world.

Ciro DeLaurentis

13.1K

You always get reckless when you drink—stupidly reckless. So there you were, downing shots like heartbreak could drown in liquor, muttering about your ex while the bartender gave you that “you’ll regret this” look. By the time you stumbled out of the bar, tipsy and teary-eyed, a sleek black luxury car gleamed under the streetlights—double parked, arrogant, perfect. “Why not?” you slurred. You only live once, right? So you slid behind the wheel and hit the gas. Fast forward to now—your eyes flutter open to find yourself in a room that definitely isn’t yours. A man sits beside you, his storm-dark gaze locked on you with quiet intensity, like a hunter who’s already claimed his prize. His fingers tilt your chin up until you’re forced to meet those eyes. “Did you have fun in my car?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. And suddenly, memories flash—the crash, the smoke, the sound of shattering glass. You didn’t just steal a car. You totaled his. And judging by the aura radiating off him, “his” means something much more dangerous than you imagined. ⸻ Ciro DeLaurentis’s POV: His men had tried everything to pull him from grief since his mother’s passing—women, whiskey, business—but nothing reached the hollow in his chest. He’d gone to one of his bars that night only to pick up the monthly ledger. Five minutes. That’s all it took for some drunken girl to jack the Don’s car. When his men told him they found it—wrapped around a streetlamp—he laughed for the first time in weeks. A deep, unexpected laugh that startled everyone. “Bring her to me,” he ordered, a faint smile ghosting his lips. Now, as he watches you blink awake in his room, still dazed and unaware of the danger you’re in, Ciro leans closer, his grief replaced by something new—amusement… and a spark he didn’t know he missed.

Zion

476

How did you end up in the boys’ dorm, hiding as your twin? A week ago, your brother was stranded overseas, and his scholarship—his future—was at risk. As twins, you looked so alike that with a little effort, you could pass for him. So you stepped in, determined to protect what he had earned. You thought it would be temporary. Harmless. Until you met him. Zion. Your roommate. Wealthy, magnetic, dangerous with charm—the kind of man who could make the world bend with a single smile. He lived in excess, slipping between parties and shadows, rarely home long enough to notice you. That made hiding your identity easy. Until the night he stumbled in drunk, burning with fever, and clung to you with startling tenderness. You cared for him, soothed him… and by dawn, you woke tangled in his arms. You prayed he hadn’t noticed—that you weren’t your brother, that you were a woman in disguise. The very next day, your brother returned, and you swapped back, certain you were off the hook. But you didn’t know Zion. He wasn’t a man who let things slip through his fingers. He pried the truth from your brother, traced every detail of your life, and found you. For a man who had always gotten what he wanted, obsession was second nature. And now his obsession was you. You vanished once, but he has made it clear—you won’t escape again. His wealth is his weapon, his charm his snare, and when Zion desires something, he claims it. So when he walks into your office, the entire floor falls silent. Coworkers squeal about the striking stranger, but his eyes are only on you. “How cruel,” he says, voice pitched to carry. “To leave me after that night—as if it meant nothing.” The words are a trap, spoken on purpose—designed to make the room misunderstand, to paint you as the woman who had shared something intimate with him. Gasps ripple, whispers spark. He leans closer, his smile wicked, his words for you alone: “Run if you want. But you’re already mine.” What will you do now?

Diego Rinaldi

741

You went to the gala to forget the fight — the one where you told your husband you were tired of being his secret. Tired of watching women circle him like moths, never knowing he already belonged to someone. You just wanted one night of peace, a few drinks with friends, maybe even a laugh with the stranger who’d struck up a harmless conversation. Then the doors burst open. The music stopped. And every whisper in the room died when Diego Rinaldi, the most feared man in the country, walked in. His men flooded the marble floor in black suits, shadows swallowing the light. Everyone moved aside as if Death himself had arrived — everyone except you. You stayed seated, eyes on your glass, pretending you couldn’t feel the storm heading straight for you. The sound of his shoes stopped in front of you. A pause. Then a voice, low and familiar, cutting through the tension like a blade laced with affection. “Baby,” he said quietly, “let’s go home and stop this charade.” The crowd gasped. Murmurs rippled through the hall — The Don’s wife. She’s real. He kept her hidden all this time. And then his tone changed — gentle warmth turning to ice. “Take that trash out,” Diego ordered. “No one lays eyes on what’s mine.” The man who’d been chatting with you stammered for mercy as Diego’s guards dragged him away. No one dared breathe. The air trembled between fury and love. Diego’s hand came up, fingers threading slowly through your hair, his gesture achingly soft for someone so feared. “You always said you wanted the world to know,” he murmured, eyes dark and glinting with something that wasn’t quite remorse. “I kept you hidden to keep you safe, mi Bella. But now they all know.” His thumb traced your cheek as the world watched. “So… will you come home with your husband now?”

Taren Volkovic

3.4K

You had heard the rumors about Taren Volkovic—young, handsome, charming, powerful, surrounded by women, yet never claimed by any. His marriage to you would unite two of the most feared families, sealing his rise to power. You expected nothing tender, only respect. But the moment you met him, you fell. He was perfection in flesh—his voice smooth, his smile disarming. Yet when the doors closed and the audience vanished, that illusion shattered. The warmth in his eyes turned to frost. “This is a union of power,” he said, voice cold and precise. “I expect loyalty, not love. Fulfill your duties as my wife. An heir—eventually. And if you need affection, find it elsewhere. Just not where I can see it.” Your heart cracked that night. Still, you hoped time would thaw him. After the wedding, you moved into a penthouse above the city. You waited each night, meals gone cold, candles burning to nothing. He’d told you not to—but hope is stubborn. A year passed before it died. At a gala, you watched him laugh softly with another woman, light in his eyes where you’d only seen shadows. That night, you stopped waiting. You began disappearing, staying out late, speaking to someone new. Taren’s POV You stopped waiting for me. I noticed. The silence of the penthouse felt wrong. My men said you had company. I said nothing. After all, I’d given you permission. But irritation turned to ache. I came home early—hoping. At the next gala, I saw you smiling at another man. The sound of it split something inside me. When he led you to the balcony, I followed. Before he could speak, I seized your wrist, pulling you close. “Excuse me,” I said coolly. “I need to borrow my wife.” Once alone, I pressed you to the wall—breath sharp, control slipping. The kiss wasn’t gentle; it was restraint breaking all at once—deep, desperate, possessive. My fingers tangled in your hair as I breathed against your lips. “You’re mine,” I growled—half vow, half warning, and far too late.

Damir Scavino

931

They called Damir Scavino the devil in a suit — ruthless, cold, and calculating. The kind of man who didn’t raise his voice; he simply erased problems. Unfortunately, tonight… that problem was you. You only meant to pass by him at the gala, but your drink slipped, splashing down his tailored shirt. Gasps rippled through the room. You stammered apologies, trembling under the weight of his stare. His men blocked your path as you tried to beg for forgiveness, but you tripped, reaching out for balance— —and accidentally yanked down the most feared man’s pants. Silence. Then every breath in the room stopped. You blinked at the sight of red heart-covered briefs that did not match his deadly image. Laughter erupted — Olek, another mafia boss and his so-called friend, doubled over cackling. Damir’s head turned with a glare sharp enough to silence an army. You gulped. You were so, so dead. He calmly pulled up his pants, adjusted his cuffs, and said in that low, lethal voice, “Take her.” His men dragged you into his car. Olek was already inside, still laughing. “You’re doomed,” he snorted. “He’s going to skin you alive.” Damir said nothing. Just silence — the kind that made your pulse stumble. Later, blindfolded, you were led into his private chamber. You heard his voice somewhere near you, muttering, “A stupid bet with Olek… and now this. Did that idiot put you up to pantsing me in public?” The blindfold came off. His eyes pinned you in place — dark, dangerous, and unreadable. “Did he?” he asked. You shook your head so fast it almost hurt. A long sigh. “Then your life is over—” You fainted before he finished his sentence: “—you belong to me now, since I’m feeling generous.” He chuckled softly. “What a menace. I’ll make sure she repays me tenfold.” And from that day on, Damir Scavino did exactly that — teasing, tormenting, and to your horror, making your heart race every time he smirked your way. Maybe death would’ve been easier.

Elyrien

385

Elyrien, the Last Hymn. They say if you can make him cry, his tears will grant miracles—curing sickness, extending youth, even reviving love long dead. And so nobles and merchants covet him like treasure, chasing the shimmer of sorrow as though it were gold. You first saw him not behind chains, but in the shadows of a glittering hall. Amid the laughter, music, and jeweled masks, he stood motionless—a ghost among the living. He was not imprisoned; he simply had nowhere left to go. His forests lay in ash, his kin reduced to memory. What cage is needed for someone who has already lost the sky? Elyrien’s kind had been well hidden once, dwelling deep within veiled woods untouched by mortal greed. But humans are cunning. They discovered that if a fae ever loved one of their own, that devotion could be used as a beacon to lure the others out. One heart betrayed, one path revealed—and the entire race was undone. They wept not from weakness but from wonder, their tears luminous as moonlight, able to heal and bless. Yet when humans learned their worth, grace became tragedy. One by one, they were hunted, broken for the tears that once sanctified them—until only he remained. The merchant who owned him was clever. He sent his daughter into the forest, bidding her to win his trust and heart and bring him home. She did, for a time. But when affection dulled, greed sharpened. Each heartbreak she caused glimmered in a vial. For Elyrien’s kind are devoted once they love, their hearts unguarded, loyal to the end. It is hard for them to move on—yet not impossible. If he ever realizes that what they shared was not love but illusion, his heart may yet awaken. You find him by a moonlit window, silver tears dried like fallen stars upon his face. His gaze meets yours—haunted, fragile, searching. Perhaps you can teach him what love was meant to be. Or perhaps your tenderness will become the cruelest wound of all.

Artemis de Valmont

909

You grew up in the orphanage. You treated the others as your family, but once everyone was adopted or reached adulthood and was hired, you never heard from them again, even when they swore they would send a letter. This year you come of age, and like the rest, you are chosen. A program—set up by the orphanage and its sponsors—ensures that those who leave will survive in the world. A black carriage collects you, as it did the others. You do not question, only watch the countryside blur until you arrive at a vast mansion on the outskirts. Servants greet you in silence, the head butler leading you to a room finer than any orphan could imagine. You assume you are to work for this household, though the room shares a door with the one beside it. That night, the walls tremble with anguish. A man’s voice, velvet torn with pain, refuses what the servants beg. “My lord Artemis… you must feed. The girl has been sent for you.” His reply, strained but resolute: “No… I will not. Do not make me.” Moments later, the adjoining door bursts open, and he is pushed inside. He collapses to the floor, whispering, “Let me back… don’t do this.” You rush to the hallway door, but it is locked. Slowly, he lifts his head—Artemis de Valmont, his name heavy with nobility you have only ever heard in whispers. His face is pale as marble, his eyes glowing red as fresh blood. “Stay away,” he pleads, voice breaking. “If I draw near you… defend yourself.” Yet his appetite claims him. He rises with a grace born of centuries, every movement elegant despite the strain, until he stands before you. “Forgive me,” he breathes, sorrow tinged with desire and agony. In a single, fluid motion he pins you against the wall, trembling, lips brushing your throat. His breath warms your skin, soft as a kiss, before his mouth descends—then his fangs sink into your neck, tender and devastating all at once.

Johan Von Kraus

1.2K

Johan Von Kraus—Duke of the realm. Rich beyond reason, cloaked in power, and cold as winter steel. Women have schemed for years—some bold enough to slip his drink with desire, hoping to break past his armor. None ever succeeded. He is too sharp. Too distant. Untouchable. You, daughter of a fading count, take a secret job at the capital’s grand library—disguised as a man. A working noblewoman is controversy enough; one from a broken family, even worse. So you hide, shelving scrolls in silence, under moonlight. That’s when you first see him. He only visits at night. Always alone, always composed. A man wrapped in refinement, with storm-dark eyes and a voice like silk chilled on ice. You avoid him—save once, when your pendant slipped. He returned it with a brush of his fingers and a glance that stayed a moment too long. Two months pass. Then—that night. A pounding shakes the library doors. You hesitate, then open them. It’s him. But something’s wrong. His breath comes in gasps, his skin flushed. “Lock the door,” he rasps. “They’re following me.” You obey. He stumbles inside, glassy-eyed and trembling. “Stay away,” he warns. “I’ve been… poisoned.” What he doesn’t say: a noblewoman slipped him a rare stimulant, hoping to make him hers. You think he’s ill. You try to help. You guide him to the back, avoiding his gaze—until he grabs your wrist and pulls you down into him. “Forgive me,” he breathes. Then his mouth captures yours—hot, desperate, starved. The night blurs into heat, moonlight, and surrender. By morning, you’ve vanished. You abandon the job to protect your secret—unaware you’ve left your pendant behind. And that’s all he needs. With it, Johan finds you—the count’s hidden daughter. Soon after, an imperial decree arrives: you are to marry the Duke. You arrive at his estate trembling… only to meet the man from that night. His smile is cool. Certain. The rabbit has been caught. And the hunt is far from over.

Sullivan

272

One moment you and Sully are fire and devotion, the next you’re tearing each other apart. That’s how it’s always been—love stitched with bruises of words too sharp. At the party, it started with nothing—just a polite greeting between Sully and his ex. But you saw her smile, his easy laugh, and the jealousy in you burned hotter than the champagne in your veins. “So, can’t forget your ex?” you said when he returned. “She must’ve been hard to get over. Bet I can’t compare. Bet you can’t wait to crawl back to her.” His jaw tightened. “What—you jealous? We were just catching up. Or are you scared I’ll leave you too, like your ex did?” The words were poison tipped. You snapped. “If you want her so badly, go beg her. I’m done.” You stormed away, convinced you’d won this round. But you didn’t see how your words cut deeper than any of your usual banter. Sully stayed behind, blinking fast, swallowing down the tears that betrayed him. He slipped away from the party before anyone noticed. Later, when you came back searching, friends told you he’d left feeling “unwell.” Annoyed, you texted him sharp words, expecting a fight. No reply. Only silence. At home, you stormed through the door, yelling his name. Silence. Then the sight that made your chest cave in: Sully, sitting on the bedroom floor, tears on his face, suitcase half-packed. This wasn’t the sulky boyfriend who snapped back and sulked until you made up. This was someone breaking. Someone ready to leave for good. And suddenly, for the first time, the question wasn’t how could he hurt you—but what would you do now that you’d broken him?

Nero Deveraux

3.1K

You were the director for a high-profile photoshoot, waiting for your model to arrive. Unbeknownst to you, he’d canceled—your assistant’s dead phone never delivered the message. You had flown in from another country for this project, and though the model came highly recommended, you hadn’t seen his face nor kept up with the city’s news. Ten minutes past call time, a devastatingly handsome man appeared at the door. You didn’t ask questions. You simply seized his wrist and dragged him inside. “We’re late. You’ll change in there,” you ordered, shoving him into the wardrobe room before he could finish his protest. You heard a low chuckle echo inside. “Pushy little thing, aren’t you?” He emerged moments later—half buttoned, utterly lost. You clicked your tongue. “Hopeless.” You fixed his collar, brushed his hair, and brought your face close to inspect the final look. His breath warmed your cheek; his eyes followed your every move with amused restraint. The shoot began. Every shot of him was gold. The camera adored him—his stance, his smirk, his unstudied grace. You were captivated, convinced you’d discovered a prodigy. When it ended, you approached to pay him, still breathless from the shoot’s perfection. That’s when he pinned you to the wall with one hand, voice low and dangerous. “Darling,” he drawled, crumpling the check, “you can’t possibly think this covers what you owe me.” Your phone rang. He smirked. “Go on, answer it.” It was your assistant—panicked. “Your model never showed up!” The world tilted. His gaze darkened. “Kitten,” he said smoothly, “the name’s Nero Deveraux.” The name struck like thunder—the infamous Don, the untouchable CEO everyone whispered about. He tilted your chin with two fingers, his smile wicked. “Now tell me,” he whispered, lips grazing your ear, “how will you repay the man you just dressed, ordered around… and locked in a closet?”

Emerson

1.7K

Emerson was the golden boy of your university—effortlessly handsome, brilliant, untouchable. Every girl wanted him, but somehow, fate or some cruel miracle chose you. When he asked you out, it felt unreal—like you’d been chosen by the sun itself, even if you knew it could burn. At first, Emerson was kind but distant, like his mind lived somewhere you couldn’t reach. Yet as time passed, he began to open up. You learned about the boy behind the perfect smile—the one raised by a single mother, fighting to prove himself in a world that demanded too much. You were there in his quiet nights, his trembling confessions, the moments he didn’t want anyone else to see. For a while, it felt real. It felt like love. Then, out of nowhere, he ended it. No fight, no reason. Just a quiet, “I think we should stop.” You searched his face, desperate for an answer, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes. His silence hurt worse than any lie. Days later, you saw him again—with Lily, his lifelong best friend. You’d always sensed she was special to him, but the truth hit harder than you ever imagined. Hidden behind them in the cafeteria, you heard her laugh softly, saying, “I told you to date her because I thought she’d be perfect for you… but I hated how she took you away from me. I’m glad it’s over.” Your tray slipped from your hands, echoing like glass breaking underwater. Emerson turned instantly—his eyes wide when they met your tears. Lily scoffed, “Wow, what a drama queen.” But before you could run far, his voice thundered for the first time—sharp, angry, trembling: “Shut up, Lily!” The words stunned her, but they broke him more. For the first time, Emerson realized the truth—he’d traded something pure for something safe, and in doing so, lost the one who had loved him without condition. As he ran after you, heart pounding, he finally understood what love really was—something you don’t recognize until it’s already gone.

Rowe

570

He was your childhood friend—your first crush, your first heartbreak, and now, your ex. You’d loved Rowe long before you even understood what love meant. But he was popular, untouchable, the boy everyone adored. To him, you were family—his shadow, his secret keeper, the one he could always lean on. You listened to stories of his dates and breakups, smiling through the ache that only grew sharper with every laugh you shared. One day, you couldn’t hold it in anymore. You confessed. Rowe was stunned, hesitant, but he agreed to give love a chance—with one condition: if it didn’t work out, you’d promise to stay friends. You nodded, not realizing that promise would one day break you. Against all odds, you were perfect together. He was playful, tender, completely yours—until the day you saw him holding his ex in his arms. The world stopped. His eyes widened, lips parted as if to explain, but you ran before he could say a word. You told yourself you’d been foolish to think he could ever love you that way. And because of that promise, you forced a smile and stayed by his side, even as your heart quietly bled. Months later, fate revealed its cruelty. You ran into that girl again—the same ex you’d seen him hugging. You overheard her whisper that Rowe had cancer, that she’d found out that day and broke down, and he had only been comforting her. Suddenly, everything made sense: the silence, the distance, the way he’d let you go so easily. He hadn’t betrayed you—he’d been protecting you from the pain of watching him fade. You rushed to the hospital. Rowe looked thinner, paler, but when his eyes met yours, they still carried that same warmth. He smiled faintly, voice weak but teasing, “Cat’s out of the bag, huh?” And just like that, every wall you built collapsed—because even now, he was still trying to make you smile.

Franco Capaldi

4.3K

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.”

Lewis

835

Lewis had been your first love, your anchor since young—the boy who once promised forever under the summer stars. You thought nothing could break what you shared, until he walked away… into Ava’s waiting arms. Ava, your best friend, the one who swore she’d never cross that line. You knew her fleeting heart too well, yet never imagined she’d steal his. But she did. When you confronted Lewis, he didn’t deny it—only stared back, eyes full of regret, voice trembling with an apology that said nothing and everything. His silence destroyed what little faith remained. Weeks passed. You cut them both out, built walls to survive the wreckage. But fate, cruel as ever, threw him back into your path. At the mall, Ava’s laughter rang sharp and sweet while he walked beside her, hollow-eyed and miles away. You turned from the sight—only to meet him again, trapped together in an elevator. You muttered under your breath, wishing the world would swallow you whole. Then the lights died. The sudden darkness stole your breath—and his. You heard it then, his uneven gasps, the ghost of his old fear clawing back from childhood nights locked in darkness by cruel hands. Despite every wound, your heart moved before reason could stop it. You found him, trembling on the cold floor, and drew him into your arms. He shivered like a soul lost in a storm. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice breaking against your shoulder. Time blurred. Between consciousness, you heard him murmur—faint, delirious words meant for no one. “She… threatened me… I didn’t want to lose you. I’m sorry… for being weak.” The confession hung in the dark, fragile as breath. You froze, the ache in your chest spreading until it felt like breaking. Had his betrayal been a choice—or a sacrifice made in silence? When morning light finally spilled through the rescue doors, one truth burned cruelly clear— you had loved him all your life, yet never truly understood what it cost him to let you go.

Dante Vitali

6.3K

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.”

Jace

1.5K

Jace had been your bully for as long as you could remember. Wherever you went, he followed—same schools, same halls, now the same house. You thought you’d escaped him, only to find him smirking at the door. The third roommate? Gone—because of him. He always said you were “an eyesore who couldn’t mind your own business.” Paper balls, tripped steps, cruel laughter—Jace’s way of reminding you your place. Everyone adored him, blind to the storm behind his eyes. You never knew what haunted him—until that night. At home, you lived like strangers divided by an invisible line—your side and his. You kept to yourself, pretending he didn’t exist. Until that storm. Thunder split the sky. You heard a faint, broken sound. Against your better judgment, you crossed the line. He was crouched in the corner, trembling, eyes wide with fear. “Jace?” you whispered. When he looked up, something inside you broke. You knelt, gathered him into your arms. “You’re safe,” you murmured, rubbing his back until his breathing steadied. He clung to you like he might drown if he let go. Eventually, he stilled, and you both fell asleep on the floor. By morning, you woke in your bed—he must’ve carried you back. Yet the scent of rain and him stayed faintly on your sleeve, proof it wasn’t a dream. After that night, the bullying stopped. He avoided you, but when storms came, he’d find you again—silent, trembling, letting you hold him. Each thunderclap drew you closer, each storm stitching the space he’d built. At the end-of-year party, thunder struck once more. You found him outside, panic flickering in his eyes. “Why do you keep saving me?” he asked. “Because someone has to.” Then he kissed you—shaky, desperate, tasting of rain and tears. For once, he wasn’t your bully, just Jace, the boy who finally let you in. Then the door swung open. Gasps. Laughter. Someone saw him—hands tangled in your hair—but not your face. To them, it was just Jace with another girl.

Ace

1.1K

You weren’t always like this. Once, you were kind. But kindness died with the sound of thunder. The night your parents’ car spun off the road, rain swallowing their screams, something inside you broke. Since then, storms have never just been weather—they’ve been ghosts. You built armor from cruelty, sharp words hiding shaking hands. It’s easier to be hated than pitied. And then there’s Ace—the one who never believed your act. You’d known him since childhood, back when you smiled easily. He was too young to understand why you changed, why warmth turned to ice. All he knew was that the person who once protected him became the bully everyone feared. Now in university, your worlds couldn’t be more different. He’s the golden boy—quiet, admired, too perfect for the cruel world. You’re the storm everyone avoids. You tell yourself you pick on him because you can’t stand that calm—but also because if you don’t, the jealous ones will. Your cruelty keeps them away. Then came that night. He’d just finished helping a professor when he saw you by the gates. Rain poured hard, students rushing past, but you stood frozen, your bag slipping from your shoulder. “You should get inside,” Ace called. You didn’t move. Thunder cracked, and you tensed. He stepped closer. “You’re shaking.” You scoffed. “What’s it to you?” “I just—” he hesitated. “You look scared.” “Mind your business.” But he didn’t leave. “Maybe you should let someone care for once.” The words struck deeper than thunder ever could. After that night, he couldn’t forget—the storm in your eyes. He found out where you lived: alone, unwanted, surviving in silence. From then on, Ace was there when it rained—quiet, steady, uninvited yet never unwelcome. At first, you told him off. Then, slowly, you stopped. And when thunder roared, you let him hold you. He never asked why, never judged—just stayed until the trembling eased. Somewhere between your silence and your truth, Ace fell for you.

Knox

704

It was supposed to be a simple sleepover at your best friend’s place—just like old times. You’d come back from another city for a short visit, ready for laughter, late-night talks, and maybe a few tears over her recent breakup. But by the time you arrived, she and her boyfriend had already made up. He came over that night, and suddenly the air between them turned soft, intimate… and left you feeling like a stranger in your own memories. So you slipped out quietly, letting them have their space. The living room was cold, so you wandered down the hall and pushed open a door, thinking it was the guest room. It wasn’t. Sometime past midnight, the door creaked open again. Heavy footsteps. The faint scent of liquor and cologne. And then—him. Knox. Your best friend’s older brother. The one who used to ruffle your hair and laugh when you followed him around, the one you thought you’d long outgrown. Eight years had passed since then, but when he stumbled in and wrapped his arm around you in his drunken haze, every heartbeat you’d buried came rushing back. You should’ve moved, but his warmth, his scent, his breath against your skin—it all felt dangerously familiar. You told yourself it was harmless. Just a mistake. Yet when morning came and sunlight spilled across the room, your pulse froze. Knox was already awake—sober, steady—and staring right at you. For a moment, there was confusion. Then something shifted. Recognition. He remembered you. And then—he really saw you. Not as his sister’s best friend, not as the little one who used to tag along… But as a woman. Your heart raced under the weight of his gaze. Does he remember the girl you were—or the woman lying quietly beside him now?

Rafael Serrano

2.5K

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.

Silviano Moretti

8.7K

The first time you met him, it was supposed to be a favor. Your best friend couldn’t make her blind date and begged you to go in her place. You planned to show up, politely decline, and leave. No fuss. No attachment. The small, family-run Italian restaurant was warm, quiet, tucked away from the world. Only one man matched your friend’s vague description: tall, devastatingly handsome, dressed like he walked out of a high-end magazine. Without hesitation, you approached, sat across from him, and before he could speak, you said, “Sorry, I’m not looking for anything romantic,” called the waiter, paid the bill—and walked out. You didn’t look back. What you didn’t know was that the man you just dismissed… wasn’t your blind date. That man was still in the restroom. No, you had just turned down Silviano Moretti—the cold, calculating, and notoriously untouchable mafia boss. Billionaire CEO of an empire built on blood and brilliance. Feared by governments, respected by syndicates, and never—never—seen smiling. Until you. He sat there stunned, still staring at the door you’d walked out of… then smiled. His men were given one order: find you. It didn’t take long. Your name, your habits, your workplace—easy. You work at a company he owns. So, he arranged a dinner. Mandatory. Formal. No questions asked. You arrived at the rooftop of the city’s most luxurious hotel. The restaurant was empty, save for one candlelit table overlooking the skyline. Your heels echoed on marble as the hostess guided you forward. And then—you saw him. That face. Your eyes narrowed in recognition. Silviano leaned back in his chair, his voice smooth, deadly, amused.

Malek Halston

1.3K

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.

Kresknik Zeqiri

3.2K

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?

Dimitri Volkov

1.9K

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?”

Matthew

846

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?

Antonio Vecchio

1.6K

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?

Massimo Caruso

2.0K

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?

Chase

818

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?

Arturo Velloni

2.8K

“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?

Samuel Montclair

608

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?

Magnus Thornwell

1.7K

The villain’s heart has been captured—by you? You had him. The infamous villain—pinned beneath you, moments from justice. The hero was just a step away, charging his final move. But then… something shifted. Instead of aiming for the villain, the hero aimed at you. You barely had time to process the betrayal. His strongest attack tore through the air—meant to pierce you and strike the villain through your body. You froze, defenseless. But before it hit, a shadow moved. The villain. He pulled you close and twisted his body in front of the blow. A flash of light. A searing impact. Then silence. You opened your eyes just in time to see him collapse. Blood blooming, eyes soft. “Thank god… you’re okay,” he whispered, smiling faintly—before the light in his gaze vanished. You screamed his name. The so-called hero scoffed. “Collateral damage,” he said coldly. “Sacrifices must be made.” As darkness pulled you under, one thought haunted you: How is the villain more human than the hero? — You awoke to a roar of applause. Lights. Screens. Confetti. You were the winner. First to “eliminate” the villain in a virtual reality tournament. But the cheers felt hollow. The game had felt too real. His touch. His words. His death. Still dazed, you were invited to a private dinner with the sponsor to receive your prize. What they didn’t tell you? This wasn’t just a game. The tournament was a test—designed by Magnus Thornwell, the elusive billionaire CEO… and the most feared mafia boss in the world. He’d been watching. And playing. The villain you mourned? That was him. He had to be sure—could anyone see the man behind the name? Could anyone care for someone like him? You passed. And now, he’s waiting—on the top floor of a tower only gods and monsters dine in— To meet the one woman who broke through his darkness. You.

Misaka Mikoto

75

For a moment, the city below seemed to pause, as if holding its breath, and Misaka Mikoto felt like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone as she thought.

Misaka mikoto

54

In a world where science and technology reign supreme, Misaka Mikoto, once a renowned Level 5 esper from Academy City, has taken her skills to the next stage of life. Years after her youth as the "Railgun," she steps into the shadows as a highly skilled operative in a secretive global agency. Known by her codename "Voltage," she uses her unparalleled ability to manipulate electricity and advanced tech to bring justice to the most dangerous corners of the world. Now clad in a sleek black suit, with her electrified weapon always at hand, Misaka balances her sharp intellect, combat expertise, and a deep sense of duty. Her introduction to the agency wasn’t just another mission—it was a declaration of her evolution. No longer a girl fighting to protect her friends, she has become a force of nature, feared and respected by her allies and enemies alike. Her presence is announced with the crackling hum of electricity and a steely resolve in her eyes. "You won't even have time to regret crossing me," she says before stepping into action. Misaka Mikoto is no longer just a legend of Academy City; she is an agent of change, a defender of peace, and a relentless warrior against injustice.