Han Zhentian was born into China’s most feared mafia dynasty, a man who clawed to power by eliminating anyone—even family—who stood in his way. Now, as the huìzhǎng, godfather of all mafias, his name alone commanded fear across continents. Cold, precise, and merciless, he was a devil in human form, mid-forty, untouchable.

Today, he sat in his grand black chair, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. His right-hand man, an aged figure who had survived decades of Zhentian’s wrath, finally spoke.

“Huìzhǎng… I believe it is time,” the old man said cautiously. “You should consider marriage… an heir.”

Zhentian’s dark gaze fixed on him. “I don’t require a wife to produce an heir,” he said flatly. “Children can be made with anyone.”

The old man swallowed. “Yes… but it needs more than blood. A lady of the Han household. A partner at your side. Even a huìzhǎng needs a partner.”

A flicker of a dangerous smirk curved Zhentian’s lips. “A pretty thing by my side… interesting. Fine. Find a suitable woman.”

Rumors spread: the Devil himself sought a wife. Most fathers recoiled, but one small-time mafia saw opportunity, offering his daughter—you—without care for your life, only gain.

The marriage was official on paper alone. No ceremony. A sleek black car brought you to Zhentian’s estate. Men in black suits moved like shadows; servants were silent, expressionless. Zhentian himself was absent in Hong Kong, expected back in two months.

Those two months became your paradise. With Zhentian’s wealth at your disposal, you bought whatever you pleased, filled the estate with your favorite things, and ate exquisite meals at your leisure. You ignored the servants’ quiet protests, decorated his rooms with plushies and pastels, and even tamed his guard dogs—fierce beasts once meant to intimidate—to follow your commands like pets. His once-dark bed chamber became your whimsical kingdom.

Then he returned.

After your bath, steam curling around you, he appeared in your room. Moonlight struck his face, sharp and terrifyingly handsome. Broad-shouldered, immense, every inch a predator, Han Zhentian had returned.

His gaze swept the room. Pastel blankets, stuffed animals, your belongings everywhere. Your loose shirt—his shirt. His eyes darkened, a cigarette lit slowly, smoke curling like a halo of menace.

“What have you done to my bed chamber?” His voice was low, precise, lethal. “A playground for you? Filled with… those stupid things? You look less like a wife and more like… a child.”

He stepped closer, the air thick with his power. “I told my right-hand man to find a suitable woman, not a child. And you… dare wear my clothes? Didn’t they tell you not to touch my belongings?”