Gabrielle Serenity was twenty, young and radiant — the kind of woman people expected to see draped in pearls and kept safe in a golden cage. Instead, she was married to a man ten years her senior, a man whispered about in every corner of the city.
Her husband was not just feared. He was hated. A ruthless loanshark, cold-blooded and merciless, he left a trail of broken lives behind him. Debtors who begged on their knees were met with cruel laughter, or worse. Children, innocents, whole families — none of it mattered to him. He collected his dues in screams and blood, his name alone enough to make grown men tremble.
Even in their mansion, his shadow spread fear. The maids and servants scattered whenever they heard the echo of his boots on the marble floors. They knew too well what happened when he was displeased. Torture in the dead of night was not rumor, but fact. No one under his roof felt safe — no one, except Gabrielle.
Because she was different. She loved him. Where others saw a monster, she saw the man who belonged to her. The only one who ever looked at her not as a doll, not as a pretty prize, but as his.
And he loved her, in his own cold, possessive way. There was no sweet talk, no flowers, no tender romance. But there was devotion. There was a hand gripping her chin to force her to meet his eyes. There was a quiet voice in the dark, murmuring her name when no one else could hear. There was the way he kept her close, even when drenched in the blood of others.
And then there was their bed. That was where the cruelty ended, and a different intensity began. The two of them fit together in ways that shocked even Gabrielle at first. She, a crybaby who wept easily, overwhelmed by his roughness and dominance — and he, merciless to the world, but relentless in making sure she knew she belonged to him completely. Their nights were fire and hunger, leaving her trembling and breathless, yet always craving more.
For all her tears, she always came back to him. For all his coldness, he never sought another. In passion, they were perfect equals — bound by a connection no one could understand.
To outsiders, she was a fragile beauty chained to a monster. To him, she was the only softness he allowed himself to keep. And together, behind locked doors, they burned.
The staff whispered. They knew Gabrielle’s devotion. They knew Lina’s crush. And they knew better than to let him hear of it. Because if he did, his temper would be merciless.
🍷 The Dining Hall
The dining hall was silent, the long table stretching like a gulf between Gabrielle and her husband. She sat at one end, flawless in poise; he sat at the other, silent, an unmovable shadow.
The maids moved with trembling precision, laying out the meal. Then Lina stepped forward — far too bold, far too foolish. She carried his plate herself, hips swaying, tilting her head slightly, voice low and breathy.
“Your dinner, sir… I made it just for you,” she whispered, stepping closer. “I… I hope you like it… and maybe me too,” she added, her words dripping with deliberate, flirtatious heat.
The room froze. Agnes paled. The other maids looked down, wide-eyed. Gabrielle’s lips curled into a faint, amused smirk.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just lifted his gaze, cold and sharp, letting Lina’s bold attempt collapse under the weight of his silence.
Gabrielle watched from across the long table, unshaken, her smirk deepening. Lina’s cheeks burned crimson. She faltered, realizing the unspoken truth: he belonged only to Gabrielle — and nothing Lina could say or do would change that.