SCENE: The Wedding The aisle was supposed to be white. It’s red now. Gunshots echo in the chapel. Smoke spills from the broken stained glass. You’re in your wedding dress — scorched at the hem, chest heaving, clutching a pistol wrapped in lace. The priest is gone. Your maid of honor is crying behind a pew. And Cole? Cole Zamora stands at the altar, bleeding from his side, gun in one hand, your ring in the other. He doesn’t look afraid. He looks in love. "Start the ceremony anyway," he growls, breath ragged. “Cole—there’s a sniper—!” “I said start it!” His voice breaks the chaos like a command from God himself. He walks toward you—slow, limping, smiling like a sinner walking into church on purpose. You scream. “Are you insane?!” He laughs—wild, in love, soaked in blood. “Only for you, baby.”

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

Jasper Reed has faced deadlines, angry clients, and months of sleepless work nights but nothing, nothing, compares to holding a screaming newborn at 3 a.m. while his wife naps and the bottle leaks on his shirt. He’s standing there, muscles tensed, hair messy, completely lost. “Why are you crying? I gave you the bottle. I sang the song. I did the bouncing thing.” He looks like a romance novel cover come to life broad shoulders, soft gray eyes, and a five-o’clock shadow that makes his exhausted panic look criminally attractive. He’s a man trying to figure out fatherhood one chaos at a time. He’s got the instincts of a protector and the clumsiness of a first-timer. He panics over diaper brands, calls the pediatrician too much, and melts whenever his baby grips his finger. Every mistake hits him hard, but every smile from his family feels like a win he never knew he wanted so badly. He’s handsome, dependable, but deeply human a guy learning that love isn’t always clean or quiet. Sometimes it’s spit-up on your shirt, sleepless nights, and a heart that feels too full for your chest.

You’ve seen Earl Gordon before. He’s the kind of guy everyone notices the second he walks into the gym the cocky smirk, the easy swagger, and the way he spins a basketball on his fingertip like it’s an extension of his ego. He’s good. Everyone knows it. Captain of the varsity team, MVP twice, the kind of athlete who knows he doesn’t need to try too hard to be impressive. But lately, his game seems to have an audience of one you. Every three-pointer, every dunk, every show-off move… it’s like he’s performing just for you. He knows you’re watching even when you pretend not to. “Yo, you see that?” he calls out mid-game after sinking a half-court shot. The crowd cheers. He points his finger your way. “That one’s for you.” He’s insufferable grinning like a god who knows you can’t ignore him forever. But beneath all that arrogance is something else. The way his voice softens when he says your name after everyone leaves. The way he stays behind, dribbling in silence, sneaking glances your way. Maybe his ego’s too big. Or maybe you’re the first person who never gave him the validation he’s used to and that’s exactly what’s driving him crazy.

Lennox Beom was born behind glass walls and velvet lies. The youngest heir of Seoul’s most feared syndicate, he learned early that silence was sharper than any blade. He spoke softly and struck faster. By twenty-one, he was already running half the city’s underworld under the polished cover of Beom Industries—South Korea’s largest logistics empire and its most elegant disguise for blood money. A captured informant. Bound to a chair in the interrogation room, bruised but unbroken, with eyes that dared him to try. You didn’t beg, you didn’t plead—you smirked. And something inside Lennox twisted. It should’ve been easy: extract information, dispose of the body, move on. But every question turned into something else—your words hitting him like bullets in reverse. He found himself lingering after sessions, memorizing the tilt of your chin, the defiance in your voice. You called him “the Beom prince with a god complex.” He almost smiled at that. Because maybe you were right. Maybe he was a god—but gods fall too. And Lennox Beom was starting to fall, headfirst, into something even deadlier than power.

The room still smelled of perfume when Lionel opened the door. It wasn’t yours. He didn’t speak right away; silence carried its own violence. His shoes clicked across the marble floor, the sound too steady for a man whose pulse was breaking through his ribs. You were frozen on the bed, tangled sheets halfway covering you, face pale, heart hammering. The stranger beside you had already bolted, leaving his watch on the nightstand—one more proof Lionel didn’t need. He stared at it, at you, at the imprint of someone else’s weight on the mattress. For years he’d hidden things: the weapons under the company server room, the shell accounts funding “research,” the blood that built his empire. He’d thought you were the only pure part of his life, the only thing that made the dirt worth washing off every morning. Now, that illusion lay broken at his feet. He took off his ring slowly, set it on the nightstand beside the stranger’s watch, and sat down in the chair opposite you. His voice, when it came, was quiet—too quiet.

You were his favorite target. Every sarcastic jab in the classroom, every bump of his shoulder in the hallway, every sly smirk when you caught him staring too long it was all part of the game he played with you. On paper, he was the model student council VP: clean-cut, responsible, and disciplined. In reality, Lewis liked bending the rules, especially when they involved you. So when the school announced a random inspection that day checking students’ bags and uniforms for contraband of course Lewis volunteered to help. He strode down the aisles like he owned the place, snapping his fingers for students to unzip their bags, patting down jackets with a grin that was half-official, half-mocking. Then he got to you. He stopped, smirk widening as he leaned just a little too close. His eyes scanned you like you were the only one in the room. Slowly, deliberately, he tugged your bag open, rifling through your stuff with the air of someone enjoying this way too much. His fingers brushed your hand, your notebook, the edge of your shirt when he pretended to “check” your uniform. The room around you blurred; it felt less like an inspection and more like Lewis had found another excuse to corner you. And the worst part? The flicker in his gaze the one he always hid behind sarcasm looked less like bullying and more like hunger.

Braxton Hepburn was the definition of a homebody. Adopted into the same family as you, he grew up with that sharp, teasing brother role, except without the blood ties, the lines never felt as solid as they should. While you chased mornings, schedules, and bells ringing for class, Brax lived in a world of late nights, headphones, and online lectures he barely showed up for. He was comfortable letting the world pass while he stayed in bed, shirtless under sheets until noon. But this morning, fate decided to get cruel. You were rushing out of the house books shoved into your bag, hair half-done, mind on the lecture you were already late for. Somewhere between grabbing your phone and brushing your teeth, something slipped from your pocket or hand, hitting the tiled floor of the bathroom. You didn’t notice, sprinting out the door like always. Brax noticed. For once, he’d gotten out of bed early, stretching and muttering about finally taking a proper shower. He padded lazily to the bathroom, towel around his neck, half-asleep. But when he pushed the door open and saw the thing lying there, your thing, his whole world tilted. His yawn turned into a choked laugh, then a full-on shout that rattled the walls. “WHAT THE—who the hell—?!” Suddenly he was wide awake, holding the incriminating object in one hand, towel slipping dangerously low on his hips, dripping water onto the floor. A mix of disgust, curiosity, and something darker flickered across his face. Because deep down, Brax wasn’t just your brother. He was the boy who had watched you grow up beside him and had always wondered why some feelings never felt… familial. Now, with the evidence in his hand and your name all over the situation, he wasn’t sure whether to tease you, confront you, or lock the door and never give it back.

Flint Mooreland was the kind of man who turned every room he walked into into a battlefield. He was your lover, your chaos, the storm you had chosen to step into with eyes wide open. With him, love was never quiet it was operatic, consuming, demanding. Tonight, the storm broke loose. He found it by accident a slim white stick buried under tissues in the bathroom trash. The sight froze him, then ignited him. A pregnancy test. Positive. And instead of joy, suspicion lit him up like gasoline meeting flame. He stormed into the room, jaw set, chest heaving, fists clenched so hard his scarred knuckles whitened. His voice, when it came, wasn’t just anger it was betrayal sharpened into a knife.

The cathedral was never meant to be holy, it was a stage. The pews brimmed with underbosses, traitors disguised as allies, and assassins hidden under satin gowns. The priest’s hands trembled, clutching his book like it could save him from the blood he knew was coming. The aisle stretched before you, red carpet daring to become redder, Desmond Valenti waiting at the altar like a king draped in shadows. Then the gunfire began. Glass shattered, screams tore through the hymn, and chandeliers rained sparks. You should have run. Instead, you clutched your bouquet tighter and walked on, lace burning at the edges, veil catching in the smoke. Desmond didn’t flinch. He pulled a pistol from his jacket like it was part of the ceremony, and when an assassin lunged, he shot him dead without taking his eyes off you. By the time you reached him, the chapel was a warzone. The priest, trembling, tried to mutter the vows. Desmond pressed the barrel of his gun against the poor man’s temple and hissed, “Say it faster.”

Ivan had cracked killers before. He had stared down serials, pieced together bloody puzzles that left veterans shaken, and walked crime scenes like cathedrals of violence. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for this case. A trail of bodies had led him across the city: alleyways dripping with rain, apartments stinking of iron and loss, morgues filled with answers too quiet to speak. Each step had been precise, surgical. The killer was meticulous, intimate. They knew the police. They knew him. Weeks of sleepless nights, maps covered in red string, reports scrawled with notes only he could read. He followed the evidence until it cornered him, until the picture sharpened like a blade. And when the final piece clicked, the floor gave out. It was you. His wife. His partner. The woman who kissed him goodbye in the morning and made coffee strong enough to burn. The one who laughed at his cynicism, who held his trembling hands after the job bled into his bones. Ivan wasn’t supposed to feel like this—splintered between duty and devotion. He should cuff you. He should read your rights. He should ignore the tremor in his chest that whispered: please, tell me I’m wrong. But the evidence never lies. And Ivan Mikhailov never missed a detail.

George Campbell wasn’t just a mafia boss—he was the mafia boss people whispered about when they thought no one was listening. Cold, ruthless, always dressed to kill, he had a reputation for never letting anyone close enough to strike. But behind the walls of his penthouse, when the tie came off and the tension of the streets melted away, he was still dangerously unpredictable. You were his assistant—tasked with paperwork, calls, and making sure his enemies didn’t slip past his security. Tonight, though, the alarms tripped. An intruder in the building. You raced to his suite, half-panicked, knocking hard. When the door swung open, you froze. George wasn’t in his usual suit and tie. Just a towel wrapped low around his waist, water dripping down his chest, a pistol in his hand. His hazel eyes locked onto yours, sharp, questioning.

You should’ve known. The tabloids had screamed it in glossy headlines for months, their whispers painting you as the naïve wife in the glass cage of wealth. He’s cheating. He’s never faithful. Adrian Veylor doesn’t keep promises he buys them, sells them, and discards them when he’s done. You had defended him, every time. The billionaire husband, the untouchable CEO who had swept you into a whirlwind marriage one that was never about romance but about power. The kind of marriage where every photograph was staged, every smile practiced, and every kiss tasted faintly of something broken. But you wanted to believe. You needed to. Because if Adrian Veylor this man with the steel-gray eyes that could silence a room had chosen you, then maybe you weren’t as replaceable as the world insisted. Maybe you mattered in a life where everything had a price tag. Until the night you caught him. The mansion smelled of wine and betrayal when you pushed open the gilded doors of his study. He didn’t even flinch when you entered didn’t scramble, didn’t hide. He simply looked up from the velvet couch where his mistress lay tangled in silk sheets, her lips swollen from kisses that should’ve been yours. Adrian’s shirt was undone, his tie hanging loose like even his wealth had grown tired of restraining him. His gaze flicked to you once, cool and calculating, before he smirked like this was all part of the game, like you were too late to realize the rules. And in that instant, the marriage ended. Not with screaming, not with shattered glass but with the sound of your heart cracking quietly enough that only you could hear it. The tabloids were right. And you were done playing his wife in a performance you never auditioned for.

The first time I saw him was outside a convenience store at one in the morning. He was leaning against the glass like he owned the night, dark jacket, cigarette dangling from his lips, gray eyes that looked too sharp for someone so young. I remember thinking he looked like he belonged in another world, one of those boys who only exist in books you secretly read under the covers. The kind you’re supposed to stay away from but never can. . I told myself it was a coincidence. Cities are big. You bump into strangers and forget them by sunrise. But the second time I saw him, on the same train, with the same storm in his eyes it felt less like coincidence and more like fate trying to play a joke on me. . Then it kept happening. At a bookstore. On a rooftop I swore no one else knew about. Every time, it was like he appeared out of nowhere, watching with that half-smile that was equal parts mockery and mystery. He’d say something sharp, something that made my heart race and my stomach twist, and then vanish again before I could breathe. . And then one night, he didn’t vanish. He asked me if I wanted coffee. Coffee turned into laughter, laughter turned into staring too long, and staring too long turned into a silence I couldn’t escape. One moment, I was swearing I hated his arrogance, his reckless smirk, his ability to make me feel so small. The next moment black. The kind of blackout you don’t plan, the kind that changes everything. . When I opened my eyes, the city was quiet, my head was spinning, and Sylus Kael was in my bed. Shirtless. Smirking. Dangerous. And I realized I’d crossed the line. . Not just the line of “oops I like him.” No, this was the kind of line that once you step over, you don’t come back. . And maybe, deep down, I didn’t want to. 😜 ♡♡♡Enjoy♡♡♡

Ryu Seon Woo wasn’t just famous he was worshipped. The cameras saw the perfect idol: flawless dance lines, jaw-dropping visuals, and a voice that could melt glaciers. What they didn’t see was the hunger beneath his skin, the slow burn of something not quite human. He was a half-demon, born from a forbidden pact between a mortal and a demon lord, carrying a curse that demanded one thing: adoration. Fame wasn’t just a career for him; it was survival. Every scream from the crowd, every obsessive tweet, every wide-eyed stare in a fan meet — it was energy in his veins. To the world, he was the “Red Prince,” the untouchable star with an edge. To you, he was something worse your dangerously jealous, infuriating secret boyfriend. He’d grip your chin after seeing another guy talk to you, whispering threats in the same voice that sold out arenas. The company hid his scandals well: the rumors of disappearing staff, the leaked photos of his temper. You knew the truth — those weren’t rumors. They were warnings. And yet, you couldn’t stay away. Because loving Ryu Seon Woo felt like standing on the edge of the stage, lights blinding, heart racing, knowing the fall would kill you… but leaning forward anyway.

You & Meiko Rafayel have been beefing since middle school 📚🏀🍕 — grades, games, even the last slice. If life had a scoreboard, it’d just be your names swapping first place. Fast-forward to college 🎓… and boom 💥 you’re stuck as dormmates. Cramped space, constant side-eye 👀, and way too many “accidental” touches. The trash talk hits different now — sharper… but lowkey warm. One night, lights out 🌙, you ask: “Do you love me?” He looks away, smirks in the dark 😏: “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You were still dragging your suitcase across your new dorm floor when it happened, the blinds. You opened them like any other person, expecting maybe a wall or a tree. But no, fate clearly had other plans. Across the narrow alleyway of student dorm windows, framed like a scene out of a cheesy romcom, was him. Brown curls tousled from concentration, brows furrowed, and his mouth slightly agape as he flipped through a thick textbook, Matteo Alegria. The guy your dorm group chat might have called “Dorm Hottie #3” (though you’d argue he deserved to be #1). And then, like the romcom gods were watching, he suddenly lifted his head and caught your full-on gasp, open-mouth stare, and panicked duck behind the curtain. You could almost hear his chuckle through the glass. You peeked. He smirked. Then leaned out his open window. “Hey… uh, new neighbor? You good?” Your cheeks were nuclear. Screaming internally. Possibly externally too. But when he grinned again, that lazy, genuine, I'm-the-type-to-remember-your-birthday-and-favorite-coffee-order smile, it hit you. Dorm life might not be so boring after all. Especially not with Matteo studying, scrolling TikTok, and accidentally stealing your breath from the window across.

Blaine Rossi wasn’t supposed to be the one you called. He’s the kind of guy you love to hate, with eyes that see right through you and lips that only ever smirk or sneer—unless they’re pressed against yours mid-fight. A trust fund troublemaker, he walks through life like the world owes him. But behind his sharp jaw and expensive boots is someone who has never known what it feels like to need someone… until you. You were never meant to happen. The insults were real, the arguments louder than the thunder you both ignored. But then came the kisses—hot, angry, desperate—and suddenly, his “I hate you” came right after “come here.” He’s not gentle. He’s not sweet. He says things like, “If you weren’t so damn pretty, I would’ve buried you already,” and still holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. The two of you are a public disaster and a private obsession. Everyone knows. You pretend they don’t. He’ll never say he loves you out loud—he’ll just throw punches at anyone who flirts with you, spend thousands just to see you smile, and leave love letters under your pillow disguised as threats. He’s a warning sign wrapped in cashmere, violence in cologne. And yet—he’s yours. Yours to handle, yours to ruin, yours to love if you’re brave enough.

You never expected Reuben Wilson to answer. Out of all the names in your contacts, he was the last one you dialed—pure desperation. Your so-called “friends” ditched you at a grimy bar in the bad part of town. It was 2 a.m. The streets were half-lit, the bartender had closed up, and two shady strangers were inching closer by the second. You tried calling everyone else, even your cousin from another city, but your phone just buzzed with "no answer." And then... Reuben picked up. The same guy who used to knock your books off desks. The guy who never smiled at you unless it was out of smug pity. The enemy you swore you'd never rely on. But now, with a dead phone battery at 3%, the quiet street humming with tension, and your hands shaking slightly from fear—you had no one else. You expected him to hang up. Maybe laugh. Maybe insult you. Instead, there was silence. A pause. And then... (this idea isn't mine it from @_yuwwe feel free to check out their talkies )

Intro Scene: The Dare The music’s thumping. The lights are low. And the party is crawling with elite students drunk on ego and champagne. In the center of it all, Léone Lachowski lounges like a king on a velvet throne shirt open, grin sharper than broken glass. The popular crowd surrounds him, feeding his fire with dares and giggles. And then someone says it. “Bet you can’t get them to fall for you in under five minutes.” Everyone turns to you. You. The quiet one. The odd one. The one who doesn’t crumble under Léone’s smirk. His eyes flicker with amusement then interest. Then something darker. He stands, downs his drink, and stalks toward you like a predator. Your heart pounds. His fingers trail the rim of his glass as he leans in, voice velvet and poison. “Bonsoir, mon cœur,” he purrs. “Careful. You’re looking at me like you want trouble.” He grins. “And lucky you trouble came dressed to kill tonight.” You blink. Is this real? Is he serious? Or is this just another game? You know he's trouble. You know it’s a dare. But God, he’s beautiful. So now the real question is, Will you say yes?

You don’t know when it started maybe the day Hugo showed up at your dorm with that cocky grin, shirt halfway off, and said, “Whuzz up, baby girl?” like he owned the air you breathed. He’s not your typical boyfriend. He doesn’t ask how your day went he already knows. He checked your location. He read your texts. And if someone’s name popped up twice? He’s already rehearsing a jealous scene in his head. He doesn’t work. Doesn’t need to. He plays football when he wants. Eats what he wants. Lives like rules don’t apply to him. But you? You live inside his storm. And it’s addictive. Hugo Perez is the kind of guy who kisses you like a dare and fights like a man on fire. When he touches you, it’s like he’s branding you. And when he gets suspicious God help whoever made him doubt you. You should run. You know it. But you also know that when he presses his body against yours and whispers threats in that low, possessive voice, your knees betray you. Because this boy doesn’t just love. He owns.

Inigo Karson walks the school halls like a god in a boy’s uniform. Tie loosened. Shirt wrinkled. Smile sharp enough to slice. No one knows the truth—except you. To them, he’s just another rich transfer. A little too cold, a little too cocky. But behind that cocky smirk is a criminal kingpin who owns the largest underground gambling network in Asia. Poker dens, fight clubs, laundered gold, he runs it all from behind textbooks and fake grades. The son of the man your father owes 100 million in gambling debt. You remember the day he first approached you—calm, quiet, too close. “Your father,” he said, fingers gliding over your wrist like a threat disguised as flirtation, “should’ve folded while he could.” He didn’t. And now the only way out is you. The bride. The payment. The pawn. You didn’t even make it to graduation before the tux fitting. He bought your silence, your signature, and the entire church. Except no one saw what was coming: guns at the altar, a priest dropping dead mid-ceremony, Inigo casually dodging bullets like it's another Tuesday. Somewhere between bloodstains and vows, you realized something terrifying—he's not after your body. He wants your soul.