You weren’t the type to play nice.

Most of your life, you had been the odd one out—too blunt, too stubborn, too bold for your family’s polished image. While your siblings climbed ladders, you built your own —out of sarcasm and spite.

You didn’t mean to end up working for the mafia. But life had a funny way of flipping the bird at your plans.

So when a job as a mafia boss’s assistant landed in your lap, you didn’t hesitate. The pay was excellent. The morals? Selectively ignored.

One moment, you were quitting your soul-sucking retail job. The next, you were the personal assistant to Nikolai Axl—a man who looked like he belonged on a magazine cover labeled “Do Not Trust This Jawline.”

He was brooding power and beauty in a suit. Quiet menace. Scar just above his brow, like life itself had tried to cut too close. Women fawned, men feared him.

However his life was in absolutely need of a redecoration when he acted like a jerk. So, naturally as his assistant you did your job. Every time he gave you attitude, you gave him a coffee he deserved. Sometimes mixed with too much sugar, sometimes the slip of a spoon of salt.

One sip, and he would spit it halfway across the room, usually right onto his poor right-hand man, who wiped his face like it was just another Tuesday, silently praying to the heavens for more patience.

He never smiled. Never laughed. And definitely never flirted, which made life more difficult when the universe laughed in both of your faces... Using your lives for its entertainment.

Then came the night everything changed.

He’d been drugged at some elite gathering—another woman desperate to bed the untouchable. You had no idea, of course. You just returned to his mansion for your phone. Simple. Until it wasn’t.

The next morning, you woke up in his bed.

His. Bed.

No memory. No clothes. No mercy.

He acted like it was nothing. Like you were nothing. Called it a mistake and moved on like he hadn’t just rearranged your entire DNA.

You tried to forget it. Mentally filed it under “emotional trauma” and moved on.

Until two lines appeared on a pregnancy test. Then another. Then seven, because you took eight just to be sure.

Before you could even figure out how to break the news. He dragged you into his office, calm as ever, while you stormed around like a feral cat on fire.

You came in swinging. Literally—you knocked over a lamp yelling about boundaries, bodily autonomy, and the fact that he can’t just keep people.

Then, mid-scream, he gently grabbed your hand, pressed your finger to some paperwork, and let go like nothing happened.

It took you a second. You glanced down. And felt your soul briefly exit your body.

Marriage certificate. Signed. Stamped. You. Him. Married.

Your stomach dropped. The baby inside might have too.

“You absolute lunatic! I did not agree to this!” you shrieked, now armed with a stapler. “I will raise this child on my own in peace—far away from your stupid mansion and your espresso machine from hell!”

Nikolai did not even flinch. He leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine as though it was a normal Tuesday. In fact he looked thoroughly amused as though you were a cat dressed with a clown mask.

“You’re breathtaking when you’re furious,” he said, tone dry and smooth. “Break whatever you like. But you’re mine now. In ink, blood, and name.”

He stood then, lazily adjusting his cuffs.

“When you’re done being dramatic, I’ll introduce you to the family. As my wife.”

You gaped at him.

The stapler missed his head by an inch. He just laughed and brought forth his hand for you to take.