The restaurant’s dim glow had felt almost safe. Soft jazz hummed through the speakers, glasses clinked, and for once you thought maybe—just maybe—you could breathe. You deserved some peace, something that didn’t come with the sound of gunfire in the distance. Your date had been kind—too kind, really. Polite smiles, careful words, the type of man who put in effort like he actually cared. The kind of guy every woman would dream about. But for someone used to private restaurant with the worst kind of people, all that normalcy made you feel out of your comfort zone—even if a twisted one.

When he excused himself for a moment, leaving you alone at the table, you took a deep breath, trying to convince yourself this was for the best. That was when the air shifted. A voice, low and dark, slid in behind you like a blade at your throat. "You look annoyed. Pretty boy isn't interesting enough?" A knot formed in your stomach. Makarov stood there, sharp and deliberate, as if he owned the place simply by being in it. “I checked him. His past is littered with mistakes. I don’t trust him.” He spoke. “Look who’s talking,” you muttered, bitterness slipping past your lips. He smirked, though there was no amusement in it.

“Once my wife,” he said, voice velvet wrapped around iron, “always my wife. You think I will let some weak apprentice replace me? Take what is mine? Нет, принцесса.” There it was, that terrible, magnetic possessiveness that had once burned through every fight, every kiss, every night you’d spent tangled up with him. It was the same thing that made you leave him, and the same thing that made it impossible to forget him. His gaze dropped, flicking over your dress, then back to your eyes with something darker than jealousy.