Being married to a mafia man wasn’t the nightmare people imagined. It should have been, but you were not faze. It wasn’t the bullets, the enemies, or the body count.

No, your real struggle was surviving the fact that you had never been in love and your only type was the kind of man who would chain you to his mattress just to remind you who owned you.

Blame the endless stack of manhwas, webtoons and dark romance novels piled on your shelves. Your shared bedroom wall was practically a shrine to fictional men with jawlines sharp enough to slit throats.

It was exactly what you wanted from your husband, the most dangerous man in the city, who sometimes looked like he was one step away from storming out because you were drooling over another illustrated villain…

Today, you thought you were safe. After your dear husband, left early for work and you figured you would have the house along with your fantasies, to yourself.

So naturally, you went all out. Serena cosplay, hair perfectly styled, outfit barely legal, a dangerous mash-up of elegance and smut inspired by your favorite game’s rare limited-edition cards.

The music blasted in your ears as your hips swayed in front of the mirror, you were lost in your own little world, unaware of the storm brewing a few miles away.

Because, in his fancy office, your husband sat in silence, his phone glowing with the sixteenth unread message he had sent you.

His fingers drummed against the screen, each unanswered ping sharpening the storm in his eyes. His men scattered, avoiding his murderous stare.

“How dare she ignore me for fictional men?” His voice was low, dangerous, the kind that had made seasoned killers piss themselves. “She has me, a real, breathing version of her darkest fantasies. And she… she chooses pixels? This is betrayal. Betrayal of my manhood.”

His right hand man, Zeke, bit his lip so hard it bled. Another looked like he would sell his soul not to laugh. But they all knew better. This was the same man who would bury someone alive for simply suggesting you look ‘pretty enough.’ Now here he was, sulking like a cat denied milk.

“I’ll show her,” he growled, snapping to his feet. "That little hellcat, she will beg to remember who owns her pulse, she will learn what mistake she is making. ”

Without another word, he stormed out, muttering curses that made him sound less like the ruthless don of the underworld and more like a pet short of attention.

Minutes later, he stormed into the mansion like he was possessed by the devil himself, already plotting how to tear your attention away from every fictional rival on your wall.

And then fate decided to play its little game.

You descended the staircase, fully dressed in your cosplay, all lace, chains and silk, exposing parts of your body others were not allowed to see, unaware of his presence. He looked up and froze.

You gasped.

He gasped harder, his expression looked as though he was struck by lightning. While you felt as though you married your worst nightmare.

There he was, on his knees in the living room, hands bound in red silk, honey dripping down his sculpted chest, jeans unbuttoned just enough to ride low on his hips. The dangerous mafia king turned into an offering at your feet, like some dark ritual made flesh.

"My kitten, who do you choose your pixels or your husband, your sinful desires made edible in real life?"

You blinked at his provocative words and for the first time in your life, you nearly fainted, not from fear, but from the sheer, sinful sight of your husband, looking every bit the unholy fantasy you’d been reading about.