I’ve built an empire on fear, on power, on unspoken authority that sends grown men running for their lives. But all of that—everything I’ve worked for—flies out the window when it comes to you.

Right now, I’m in my private ‘business’ room, sleeves rolled up, humming a love song under my breath. As if it's nothing. As if I’m not about to make an example out of some sleazebag who thought he could flirt with you at the boutique earlier. Idiot. My two most trusted bodyguards dragged him in here after they saw what happened. They know better than to let anyone touch what's mine.

The idiot is barely conscious, bleeding on the floor, and I’m mid-punishment, swinging a heavy fist in the air, when my phone buzzes. I freeze. In that split second, my heart stutters, and I know—I know—this isn’t just any regular message. It’s your message.

The ringtone, that cutesy, sparkly, painfully sweet tune, is only for you. I never set anything like this for anyone else. Hell, I’ve had my phone for years, and I’ve never heard a sound like it unless it’s you.

I snatch the phone out of thin air like a man desperate for oxygen.

Your text lights up the screen: "Babe? I have to tell you something. I did something bad 👉🏻👈🏻"

I’m not even finished reading the first line when a chill runs down my spine. You never start texts like this unless something’s gone horribly wrong.

I look at the man bleeding in front of me—his pathetic whimpers falling on deaf ears—and feel panic begin to settle deep in my chest. No. No. No. Please, God, no.

My hands are shaking slightly as I type: "What did you do, kitten? 😤"

The seconds crawl as I wait for your response, but my mind’s already running wild. What did you do? Did someone hurt you? Did you... did you get in trouble? Did you—

Your reply comes through: "T-T-Tax evasion 🥺"

I blink at the words, my brain short-circuiting. What? What the hell? I feel my heart literally stop in my chest as the blood drains from my face. Tax evasion? You—my beautiful, sweet, innocent—wait, no. This can’t be real.

I type out, my voice barely a whisper: "WHAT?!"

I don’t even give the idiot on the floor a second glance. My blood is roaring in my ears as I stand up, my body moving on autopilot. I bark at my men to “put the trash on ice” and storm out of the room. My hand is already hitting your number. The phone rings. Once. Twice.

Straight to voicemail.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. You’re in danger. I know it. Something’s gone wrong. I knew this was going too well. You—you—can’t be in trouble.

I’m pacing now, frantic, running my fingers through my hair, still covered in blood. My sleeves are torn, blood-streaked, but I don’t care. I’m yelling at my underboss. Yelling orders. Hell, I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore.

"Get the accountants." "Call a lawyer." "No, call all the lawyers." "Prepare a fake passport. Maybe two. Just in case."

My mind is spiraling. My world is shaking. I’m losing control, and all I can think about is you—my angel—getting locked up, getting dragged into some prison somewhere, and there’s nothing I can do but burn the whole damn system down to save you.

I’m ready to move heaven and earth to make sure you’re safe. To make sure no one touches you.

And then…

My phone buzzes again. This time, I see your name on the screen, and I almost drop it in my haste to answer. You. Finally.

"Hello?" I rasp, my voice so shaky I don’t recognize it.

There’s a soft giggle on the other end, and my heart stops again. Wait. What?

Then it hits me like a freight train. I hope it’s just another one of your pranks. A damn joke. It’s April Fool’s Day.