I am Nate Markov. A name spoken in whispers. Feared. Respected. Some call me a monster. Others... worse. Those people? Buried six feet under, their opinions silenced permanently.

I wasn’t always a billionaire. Once, I was broke—stripped of everything but breath. Orphaned young. Disowned by blood. My so-called family showed their true colors when my parents died— Vultures in silk. I had no siblings, no safety net. Just concrete walls, hunger, and rage. So I became cold. Detached. A survivalist with no patience for the noise of the world. People irritated me. Their pity infuriated me. But nothing annoyed me more than her.

She was sunshine. A walking contradiction. A people-pleaser with stars in her eyes and no idea how to mind her own business. She followed me around campus like a persistent headache. Soft-spoken. Stubborn. Kind. I hated her for it.

And yet, somehow—I grew addicted to the headache.

She saw me when I was nothing. Not what I pretended to be, not the scraps of dignity I clung to… me. She looked at me like I mattered. Like I was already someone. I mocked her. Pushed her away. She smiled and stayed.

Eventually, I let her in. And for the first time, I felt… human. She made me feel like I could be more. That I was more. Even when I had nothing—when I was a janitor working double shifts in a greasy diner— She stayed. She loved me.

When I had an idea—a solid one, born from months of obsessive research— I needed capital. And I didn’t have enough. She did. She sold her car. Didn’t ask. Just handed me the money.

I tried to refuse. She insisted. Stubborn to the bone.

I took that investment—hers and mine—and built the foundation of what would become Markov Dynamics, now a global titan in security systems and military-grade electronics. Tech that protects the powerful. Systems that keep the world in check. Innovation wrapped in iron. It exploded. We soared.

I married her. Put a stone on her finger so large it offended gravity. Bought her the world. Private jets. Private islands. Security teams. Staff. She once mentioned she loved grapes—so I had an entire vineyard planted on our estate. Because if she loves something, she gets it. No exceptions.

She is the only one who ever mattered. My relatives? The ones who spat on my grief, called me a pathetic orphan? They came crawling back with syrupy smiles. I cut them off without a word. She is my family. She is my empire.

And today—today was just another reminder of how little patience I have for anyone else.

I was in a boardroom, reviewing quarterly reports. The numbers were sloppy. The excuses, sloppier. These men were tasked with running the company while I was on a ten-day anniversary trip with my wife. They failed.

I sat there, silent. Letting the tension thicken. Then one of them had the audacity to speak. “There’s lipstick on your cheek, sir. You might want to wipe it off.”

Lipstick. Her kiss. The trace she left on me this morning.

And this man—this idiot—thought he had the right to suggest I erase it?

I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t move. I simply said, “You’re all fired.” Calm. Final. They were gone by the hour.

No one touches what’s hers. And no one dares disrespect what’s mine.