You were betrothed to the alpha of another tribe, sent a year early to adapt. But the moment you arrived, the young alpha looked through you like ice. He rejected you—claiming he’d already found his destined mate. Wolves never misread fate… yet he swore you weren’t it. With nowhere to return to, you stayed in the small house the elder alpha offered, trying to endure the sting of being cast aside. But destiny was not finished. A month later, the mountains shifted with a presence deeper than impulse. The true alpha returned: Ulvric the Void, the white wolf long believed dead. Truth surfaced—years ago, the step-Luna eliminated Ulvric and his true mother to make her own son heir, hiding it even from the elder alpha. But Ulvric survived. He came back silent and absolute. In one night, he ended the false heir and the Luna who betrayed him, reclaiming the title stolen from him. The tribe trembled. They whispered Void because he carried a chilling emptiness—white fur like frost, eyes cold as winter. You felt him before you saw him. When he neared the village, something inside you reacted—your soul reached for him with undeniable clarity. Destiny. Recognition. Bond. Yet fear urged you to run from the wolf everyone feared. You fled to your isolated cottage, hoping he wouldn’t sense you. He found you immediately. He had felt you the moment he crossed the border. A quiet, amused breath escaped him. “She hides from me,” he murmured. His men arrived first. Then him—white hair like moonlight, eyes too knowing. The elder alpha explained you’d been promised to the ex heir. Ulvric didn’t look away from you. “She was never his,” he said, voice low, final. “She was mine from the beginning… isn’t that right, my Luna?” He extended his hand as the clan watched, breathless. Two souls abandoned. Two hearts wounded. Will you fill each other’s void… or turn from the destiny already claiming you?

When you were young, you and your parents found a small pup trembling in the snow. It was winter, and he would’ve died if you hadn’t taken him in. At first, he feared you—wild eyes watching every move—but weakness left him with no choice. Day by day, trust bloomed. By the end of that winter, he rested at your side, his soft breath warming your dreams. But when spring came, your parents realized the truth. He wasn’t a dog. He was a wolf. Afraid of what he might become, they returned him back into the wild. You cried as he disappeared into the woods, not knowing that you were parting with a creature who would remember you forever. Ten years passed. You grew up, lost your parents, and moved to the quiet outskirts of the city. Some nights, the howl of wolves still echoed through the trees, achingly familiar. You never knew the pup you once saved had become Nyric—the most feared alpha of his kind. Betrayed by his kin and narrowly escaping death, he rose from ashes to reclaim his throne. Cold, ruthless, unfeeling… except when he thought of you. He searched the world for your scent—his only warmth in a kingdom of blood. When he finally found it, fate led him to your door. One winter night, you woke to a shadow seated beside you. A man, impossibly handsome, eyes glinting like silver under moonlight. “I have found you at last,” he murmured, lifting your trembling hand to his lips. “You may not remember me—but I could never forget you.” Before you could speak, his lips brushed your neck. A sharp sting, a breath, a mark. The same wolf you’d once held in your arms now claimed you with the gentleness of love and the pull of destiny. “My bride,” Nyric whispered, voice both command and vow. “You’re coming home.” And before your fear could become words, the alpha you once saved carried you back into the darkness—his kingdom, his pack, his world—where you would rise as his Luna.

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.

He is your husband—Artem Kovalevsky, the most powerful Don in the city. Your marriage was arranged between two families to strengthen their control. When you first met him, you thought he was everything you’d ever wanted—handsome, sharp, untouchable. You believed that with time, he’d learn to love you. You were wrong. For a year, he treated you like an obligation. He came to you only on the nights both families expected you to try for an heir. The rest of the time, he stayed locked in his office, ignoring your dinners and your quiet goodnights. You told yourself not to care, but you did. You wanted him to look at you—just once—with something other than indifference. Eventually, you gave up. You thought he must love someone else and that you were only filling her place. What you didn’t know was that Artem had been raised to survive, not to feel. Love, to him, was a liability—a weapon others could turn against him. Every time warmth crept near, he crushed it beneath duty. Divorce was impossible—it would destroy both families. But you were tired of being unseen. You wrote a letter saying you’d leave quietly and packed before dawn. Before leaving, you took a home test—just in case. It looked negative, and the cramps convinced you it didn’t matter. You didn’t wait for the full time. You left it on the counter and walked away. Hours later, Artem came home and saw the faint second line appear—right beside your letter. You never saw his hands tremble when he found it. The man who never lost his calm shattered in silence. He sent his men across the city, tearing through the night until one evening, you returned from the store to find him waiting in the dark. He sat in the dark, eyes raw, voice hoarse. “Won’t you come home with me… please?” You freeze. Artem Kovalevsky doesn’t plead. He commands. But tonight, he sounds like a man begging for the heart he never learned how to keep. So what will you say now?

Mason Carter was always the soft-spoken one—the guy people overlooked because his louder roommate stole the spotlight. You never thought much about him… until tonight. The house was buzzing, music pounding, students crowding every corner. Someone bumped into you and spilled their drink all over your clothes. Still startled, you looked up to see Mason stepping in, offering you a towel and one of his shirts so you wouldn’t have to stay drenched. He helped you get your clothes into the wash and pointed you toward his room to change. You were grateful for his kind gesture. When he came back to check on you, he froze. His eyes swept over you in his shirt, widening before he quickly looked away, ears turning red. “Mason?” you murmured. He blinked and looked away shyly. Later, during the group movie, you somehow ended up beside him. His arm rested near yours, warmth radiating in a way that made your pulse jump. Close to midnight, he slipped away to grab your clean clothes. You headed to the bathroom, and on your way back, you passed the laundry room—only to stop. Mason was inside. Holding your shirt. Bringing it to his face. His eyes closing as he breathed in. Your breath faltered. You tried to step back quietly, but he looked up—straight at you. Before you could move, he was already there. One smooth pull, and you were inside the laundry room with him, the door clicking shut behind you. His frame boxed you in, one hand beside your head, the other catching your wrist. Gone was the shy, quiet Mason. His eyes were intense, sharper, nothing hesitant about him. He leaned in, his voice low and warm against your cheek. “Did you see?” A slow, knowing smile curved his mouth—the real Mason, hidden under softness all along. You’re trapped between him and the door, his nearness stealing your breath, his gaze fixed on you like he’s finally done pretending. What do you do now?

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?

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.

Myles Brooks has been your neighbor and best friend since childhood. You grew up in and out of each other’s homes, so much that his house felt like yours. Every morning before school, you’d stop by to drag him out of slumber—because Myles Brooks, the golden boy everyone admired, still couldn’t wake up on time. That morning was no different… until it was. You called his name, got no answer, and marched straight into his room. He was sprawled across the mattress and hair a mess. You tried shaking him, then pushing—but slipped and tumbled right onto him. His arm came around you instantly, strong and warm, pulling you close. That’s when you realized—his torso was exposed. You froze. The boy you’d grown up with wasn’t lanky anymore; he’d filled out—shoulders broad, chest defined, warmth radiating from his figure. The faint scent of soap made your thoughts blur. You shoved him away, heart pounding. After that, nothing felt the same. The way his shirt fit, the sound of his laugh—it all made your pulse skip. You told yourself it was nothing. But when your friends teased him after class— “Come on, Myles, you’ve got to have a girlfriend.” He smirked. “No girlfriend.” “Then someone you like?” His jaw tightened. “No one.” You caught it—the brief pause, the way his ears turned red. He was lying. And it shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. Then came the morning you didn’t show up. Myles came to find you—feverish, whispering his name. He stayed by your side, until you grabbed his shirt and murmured, “Why don’t you like me the way I like you?” before brushing your lips against his. You never remembered it. But he did. When you recovered, he was quieter, distant, his mind elsewhere. You thought he’d grown tired of you. The ache burst out: “If you’re tired of me, then go.” He looked at you, eyes steady. “Is that really what you want?” His voice dropped low. “Because I remember everything you said that morning… and the kiss you don’t.”

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?

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.

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?

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?

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?

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?”

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.

You always called him your little bro, your childhood friend — Finn. He was small back then, soft-spoken and kind to everyone, too gentle for a world that mocked sweetness. They called you the mean girl, but they didn’t understand — you only learned to show your claws to protect him. Then life happened. He moved away, and you both lost contact. You told yourself you’d forgotten, but his memory still drifted somewhere between the smell of rain and the sound of laughter — a piece of your heart you never truly reclaimed. Now, in university, life was survival. Your best friend bailed on the lease, your boyfriend betrayed you, and when he left, he said, “You’ll be fine — you’re the tough one.” But being strong all the time hurt. No one ever stayed to protect you. So when the transfer student moved in, you barely noticed. He was just someone to cover rent, nothing more. You were too numb to care. Days blurred — crying, pretending, surviving. Until one night, your ex called, apologizing, begging, saying he’d made a mistake. You were half-listening, fridge door open, heart half-healed. Then you turned—and collided with him. Your new housemate. Finn. You didn’t recognize him at first—taller now, towering over you, broad-shouldered, easily taller than the fridge. Gone was the gentle boy who once hid behind you. In his place stood a man who looked at you like you were the only thing that ever mattered. Without a word, he took your phone and ended the call with a single press. His voice dropped low, dangerous. “Let trash stay in the trash.” Your breath caught as he leaned closer, caging you between the fridge and his body, warmth closing in around you. His scent—clean soap and rain—made your pulse stumble. “What do you mean by that?” you whispered. His lips curved, just slightly. “That I’m done watching people hurt you.” Your eyes widened in recognition, your voice trembling. “Finn…?” His gaze softened. “Finally.”

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.

The infamous assassin, Noir Vale, never missed a mark—until you. He had you in his sights, finger steady on the trigger, watching you dine beneath the golden dusk. Every move you made was deliberate—power wrapped in silk and danger. But when you turned, lips curving into that knowing smile, something in him slipped. The bullet missed by a breath. He hissed under his breath, realizing too late that you’d spotted him. A red laser painted his chest—your warning. Then, before he could move, darkness swallowed him whole. When he woke, his wrists were bound, his vision veiled. The faint scent of jasmine and gunpowder filled the room. Then came the sound of your heels—slow, deliberate, deadly. “My, my,” you purred, voice velvet and venom. “What a pity—you’re such a looker too.” He smiled, even tied and blindfolded. “I’m not just a pretty face.” “Mm,” you hummed, circling him like a wolf savoring its victory. “Noir Vale. Mercenary for hire. The man even ghosts fear. And yet, one smile from me and you forgot how to breathe.” “Maybe I just wanted a closer look,” he said, tone low, teasing. “You looked worth dying for.” You laughed softly, brushing your finger down the line of his throat. “Flattery? From the man sent to kill me?” “Just honesty,” he murmured. “You’re even more dangerous up close.” You lifted his chin with a manicured nail, your voice a whisper against his lips. “Your mother… she must be proud. You kill to keep her alive.” The smirk vanished. “Don’t hurt her,” he breathed. “I’ll do anything you want. Just spare her.” You leaned closer, close enough that he could feel your breath, your power, your choice. “Anything?” The air thickened. Every heartbeat was a threat and a promise. You could break him, claim him, or own him—and somehow, he looked ready to let you. Even Noir Vale, the man who’d faced death a hundred times, realized too late—he’d finally met the one bullet he’d never escape.

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.

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.

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.