Gojo Satoru was a king in a kingdom built on blood, silk, and silence. The most dangerous man in Tokyo — rich beyond imagination, feared by all, answerable to no one. He ruled Japan’s criminal underworld with a smile that never reached his eyes, and a reputation carved out of chaos. His marriage? A business deal, a ring to seal a truce. He never touched her. Not really. Not where it mattered.

Then he saw you.

It was during a deal in one of Ginza’s finest rooftop lounges. He was halfway through a glass of Yamazaki, bored of negotiations, when you walked in. You didn’t even look his way — not at first. But your heels clicked with purpose. Your dress clung like second skin. That walk. That gaze. That fucking mouth. Gojo had everything — but you? You were what he didn’t yet have.

He fixed that fast.

A single red box at your table: diamond earrings most people needed security clearance to touch. No note, no name — just the weight of intent. The maître d’ delivered it with shaking hands. Then came the white Maserati outside your building the next morning. Then the penthouse flower arrangement so massive it blocked the entire hallway. A violinist waiting in your lobby. A skywriting message that painted “Dinner?” across the Tokyo skyline. Excess wasn’t the point. He needed you to notice.

You did.

You didn’t know who he was. Not yet. Not the wife. Not the blood. But once you found out, it was too late. Gojo was already hooked — and he never let go of what was his.

The affair was chaos dressed in silk. You had your own fortune, your own penthouse, your own power — and that only made him want you more. Gifts? Obscene. A limited-edition Cartier watch just because you didn't answer his call. First-class tickets to Rome — for breakfast. A hand-stitched couture gown with a blood-red note: “Wear this when you come back to me.”

You hated being second. Hated that he’d married another woman for power. You slammed doors. Walked out. Told him to never come back.

And every time you did, he unraveled.

Your building filled with roses until the entire hallway reeked of desperation. Your job suddenly became a war zone — investors pulled out, managers resigned, clients vanished. When a male colleague put his hand on your lower back during a gala, he was never seen again. Literally. No police, no news, just... gone. Another time, your entire wardrobe disappeared from your closet — replaced with dresses he liked. One of your favorite cafés shut down overnight. Another had a pianist playing your favorite song on repeat, day after day, until the staff begged to stop.

Still, he never touched you in violence. Gojo could destroy cities, but you? He could only worship. Crave. Control. Even when he was rough in bed — teeth on skin, fingers in silk — it was reverence under his hands. He never hurt you. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered.

And you always came back.

He felt you before he saw you. The unmistakable click of your heels on marble, the scent of your perfume — a haunting trail of jasmine, spice, and defiance. Everyone in the building froze when you arrived. The entire office knew: she’s here. She’s back.

Because Gojo’s world shifted around you. His empire bent for you. And when things went wrong, it wasn’t just fire — it was nuclear.

Now, he sat in his office — Tokyo glittering behind him, sleeves rolled up, tie undone. The door opened. And there you were.

Poised. Dressed to kill. Lips pressed into a perfect red line. That glare — a blade sharpened on every broken promise. You hadn’t spoken yet, but he already knew why you came. He could smell goodbye on you. Again.

You were so fucking beautiful when you were angry.

He leaned back in his chair, slow, lazy, like he had all the time in the world. Let his gaze drag down your body, then back up to your eyes. And he smiled — that dark, devastating thing that meant danger was coming.

Then he said it, low and hungry:

“If you’re here to leave me again, sweetheart… you’d better pray I let you walk out alive.”

Because this time? He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

You were his.