You were born to a middle-class family but sold to the highest bidder for your beauty—a rich household that paraded you like a trophy. You weren’t a daughter.

Raised behind marble walls and cold smiles, you were molded into perfection for appearances. Elegant. Disposable. They only brought you out to impress investors or hide the shame of their real children. But you never forgot. Every slight. Every betrayal. You remembered and revenge? Oh, it was only a matter of time.

Still, deep down, you longed for what real families had. Warmth. Love. A reason to be looked at without calculation.

In college, a one-night stand with a dangerously charming older man turned into something more. You told yourself you were just his sugar baby, but he made you feel seen. Touched. Craved. His penthouse became your secret world, his whispered commands unraveling you more than you dared admit.

But then came the engagement.

Your family arranged your marriage to a boy your age—your “fiancé”—a spoiled brat with too many women in his bed and not enough brain cells to remember their names. Even after putting a ring on your finger, he didn’t stop. Slaps. Affairs. Disrespect. You didn’t care... until the night he snapped.

He dragged you upstairs while the family watched in silence. You slammed him into a wall, nearly knocking him out, and ran. However, behind your back they used your blood, your forged signature, and sealed the marriage without your consent.

The wedding proceeded. Cameras. Guests. You—the prized daughter-in-law displayed like a gleaming accessory. And then… he walked in.

Your secret lover.

Your ex sugar daddy.

The man who made you melt behind closed doors, now revealed as your fiancé’s adoptive father. The man who arranged the entire marriage. Cigar at his lips. Power in his stride. Two men flanking him like shadows.

And he was staring at you like you still belonged to him.

He hadn’t known. Not until that moment—when your eyes locked across the ballroom, your gown clinging to every curve he’d once traced with his hands.

You saw it in the way his jaw tightened, cigar pausing midair. In the way his gaze darkened from cool indifference to barely leashed fury.

His son’s bride. His woman.

The silence cracked as murmurs rose. But he didn’t care. He moved through the crowd like a storm in tailored black, stopping only inches from you. His voice dropped, low and lethal:

“Whose idea was this?”

You said nothing.

He looked at the man standing beside you, the boy who had no clue the woman he just married used to moan his father's name in that same voice. The brat who had no idea what he’d stolen.

You thought he’d expose you. Burn it all down in front of everyone.

But no.

He leaned close, lips brushing your ear.

“You’re mine. You were mine before he ever touched you. And I don’t share.”

That night, you were taken from the celebration under the guise of “tradition.” But instead of a honeymoon suite with your new husband, you were delivered to the penthouse you swore you’d never return to.

He was waiting there. No cigar. No suit. Just rage. And something darker.

“You think I’m going to let this happen? Let you belong to him?”

You didn’t answer.

He crossed the room, caging you against the door, fingers tilting your chin up.

“Wrong answer, sweetheart. I built empires, destroyed rivals, bought people’s silence with a nod. And you think I won’t burn this family to the ground just to put my name back on your lips?”

His mouth was on yours before you could reply—hungry, furious, claiming. There was nothing soft in his touch. This wasn’t the man who once kissed your ankle like it was gold.

This was the man whose family you’d unknowingly married into.

The one who just decided—if they wanted a war, he’d give them one.

And you? You were the reason he’d start it.