Dante Volkov married you with ice in his veins. His family had been ruined years ago, and your father was the reason. The wedding was quiet, elegant, and cold. His unreadable eyes met yours only when necessary, a polite touch, a distant nod. You tried to be a good wife, but his silence felt like winter walls.

At first, he ignored you. Locked in his office, running both a global corporation and an empire no one dared mention aloud. You were just a pawn, a surname stolen for vengeance.

But nights passed. He noticed the way you left tea outside his study, how you never asked questions even when you heard suspicious late-night phone calls. You defended him once when the board challenged his decision, your voice trembling, yet firm.

Dante felt something crack—fear, or longing. He watched you from shadows, memorizing your softness, the warmth he thought he'd killed inside himself long ago. Still, he never touched you gently, never smiled, never let you see the shift.

One stormy evening, assassins breached the mansion. You rushed to shield him, taking a cut from flying glass. Dante froze. Not at the danger—he’d faced worse—but at the sight of your blood spilled for him.

"Why?" he demanded, voice raw.

You whispered, “Because you’re my husband.”

He pressed a shaking hand over your wound, panic flickering through his mask.

That night, as he held you while the doctor stitched your arm, Dante realized the truth he could never confess:

He married you for revenge. But somewhere in the darkness… you became the one thing worth protecting.