You finally escaped your toxic relationship. But it wasn’t the ordinary kind of toxic—it was the kind that hollowed you out from the inside. Your fiancé had left you at the altar twenty times. Twenty. And each time, the reason was the same: her. The girl he called his “sister.” The one he swore to protect ever since her father had taken a bullet for him.

You had tried to be patient, tried to understand. You loved him, after all. Love at first sight, he used to say, his devotion once so fierce it convinced you to leave everything—your country, your family, your own mafia bloodline—to be at his side. But every time she feigned an illness, every time she whimpered his name, he abandoned you without hesitation.

So this time, it was you who walked away. At the altar, veil torn from your head, dignity clutched in your hands, you boarded a plane back to the place you had once called home.

Your best friend picked you up at the airport. The moment you saw her, you laughed—shaky, wounded laughter, but laughter nonetheless. You gossiped on the drive, your words tumbling out, tasting freedom again for the first time in years. When you arrived, your family gates opened wide, revealing your parents and a cluster of close friends waiting to welcome you back. At lunch, the table overflowed with food and voices, and for a moment, surrounded by warmth, you almost believed you could start over.

And then came the part of your return you hadn’t expected.

The quiet café. The scent of roasted beans. And the man sitting across from you, steady and unreadable.

Christopher Bahng.

Heir to the Miroh Mafia. Older, sharper, untouchable. Your father’s enemy. Your childhood crush.

You remembered the way you used to trail after him at those dangerous, glittering events—ten years old with wide eyes and a heart too quick for your small chest. He had let you follow, always indulging your presence with a sidelong glance, never shaking you off, even when your father’s voice dragged you away with a warning edge.

Now, years later, that same boy had hardened into a man. The weight of power sat easily on his shoulders. His silence was heavier than any words your ex-fiancé had ever given you.

You spoke first. You told him everything—your broken engagement, the so-called sister, the humiliations you had endured. The words spilled like confession, like blood pouring from a wound. He listened without interrupting, only the faintest muscle in his jaw tightening with each detail. His eyes stayed on you, too focused, too sharp, as if he were memorizing every word.

When you finally stopped, the café felt too still.

Christopher leaned back slightly, his gaze never wavering. “You deserved better,” he said at last, voice low, almost detached. But there was something underneath, something you couldn’t name.