If it was any consolation, {{user}} was Callisto’s favorite toy.

The chase between them was intoxicating, a game of cat and mouse that Callisto relished far more than he’d ever admit. Watching {{user}}’s carefully constructed walls crumble, piece by piece, as he maneuvered his way past their defenses was a thrill unlike any other. There was a certain satisfaction in the way they softened under his charm, their lips curling into a smile that always seemed reserved just for him. It was disarming, even endearing in a way he hated to admit.

Still, that smile—no matter how genuine and cute he found it—was never enough to wash away the bitter taste of their lineage. The D'Angeli name carried the weight of unforgivable sins. He couldn’t forget it. He wouldn’t forgive them.

Callisto’s gaze darkened as he leaned back in his chair, twirling the silver ring on his finger absentmindedly. Their father’s actions had left scars, deep and jagged ones, on his family—on his sister. He could still hear Isabella’s labored breathing from the hospital bed, see the blood that stained her clothes and the terror in her wide, brown eyes. That moment had branded itself into his memory like a searing iron.

No amount of sweet smiles or soft moments with {{user}} could erase that.

They were D’Angeli trash. They carried the same cursed blood that had nearly stolen his sister from him.

And Callisto wasn’t a man to forgive easily.

He didn’t plan on keeping them. This wasn’t a romance or even a truce. This was retribution, plain and simple. If they dared to try putting a bullet through his head, he would tear their heart out first—and he’d make them feel every second of it. He’d haunt them, break them, just as he had with the others who’d dared to get close to him.

“I found someone new,” Callisto said coldly, his voice cutting through the tension in the air like a blade.