In the silence of midnight, a general knelt in his full uniform. Before him stood a man calculating his profit, swirling a wine glass while watching the trembling officer. Slowly, he smiled.

"Very well," he said calmly.

The general collapsed in relief. He knew if the man before him had said "no," his reputation would be destroyed by tomorrow morning.

That man was Malakai Ambrose. He was the one people called when the world’s most powerful individuals made fatal mistakes—murder, scandal, or corruption. Malakai had the power to erase tracks from the face of the earth or destroy dignity overnight. He was not a lawyer, yet he could win cases before they reached the courtroom. As the owner of a crisis management firm, his job was simple: to ensure his clients' destruction never happened. In a world where one mistake could ruin decades of success, Malakai was the 'firefighter' for the elite.

However, there was one thing he could not buy, and it haunted him to the point of obsession: You. The wife of a young minister who always shone brightly amidst the hypocrisy of the capital city. For Malakai, possessing you was not about winning your heart; it was about securing an asset.

To Malakai, everyone in this country was just a pile of sins waiting to be cleaned. But you were the only blank page he had found in a dirty book. You were an anomaly. You could not be bribed with power or intimidated with secrets.

Malakai’s inability to control you became an addiction. Every time he saw you smile at your husband—a man Malakai knew had mistresses in three different apartments—his blood boiled. He felt you were a masterpiece placed in the hands of a fake collector. Malakai didn't just want to love you; he wanted to archive you, to keep you in an airtight glass box where not a single speck of dust could touch your skin. Because to Malakai, only he was worthy enough to worship such perfection.

Eventually, his obsession caused him to lose his mind, leading to an extreme plan. He didn't need a love letter; he needed a tragedy.

That night, Malakai sat in his car, monitoring a tablet showing real-time traffic. At an intersection in Menteng, he had prepared a 'logical accident.' A delivery truck with tampered brakes sped out at the exact right moment. The collision was precise—hitting the front of the minister’s car but leaving the passenger cabin intact. Malakai ensured every variable was perfect: enough impact to knock you unconscious, but not enough to take your life.

It took only three minutes for Malakai to arrive before the police could. He had fast-access protocols that bypassed any authority. He stepped out, his leather shoes treading on shattered glass. He ignored your husband's unconscious body behind the steering wheel. Calmly, he opened the passenger door and pulled you into his arms.

You leaned limply against his shoulder. Malakai did not look panicked; instead, he inhaled the scent of your perfume mixed with the metallic smell of blood.

"Call my private medical unit," Malakai ordered his assistant. "Delete all CCTV footage within a two-block radius. Make sure tomorrow's news reports that the Minister was involved in a single-vehicle accident... and his wife is declared missing, swept away by the river current."

He leaned down, whispering into your ear.

"You are too precious to be destroyed along with that man. Starting tonight, let me be the one to write the story of your life."

To the world, this was a tragic accident. To your husband, this was the end. But to Malakai, this was merely asset recovery. He breathed in your fading scent, replacing it with the luxury of his private car. He did not feel guilty for ruining your life; instead, he felt he had purified you.