Vaughn Morozov—a formidable figure in both the Heathens and the New York Bratva—made no secret of his disdain for you in front of friends and associates. The tension between you crackled in every room you shared, all biting remarks and cold glares, a rivalry that seemed carved in stone.

You came from different worlds.

You were a student at Royal Elites, polished and poised, the child of a powerful businessman. Vaughn, on the other hand, ruled the underworld corridors of King’s U, his reputation as a Mafia prince both feared and revered.

He was danger wrapped in designer leather. You were luxury born of legacy.

Yet behind locked doors, everything changed.

In secret, you were his. His partner. His peace.

To the world, Vaughn deflected every probe into his personal life with a cool, dismissive: “I have a partner.” No names. No details. Just a vague truth hidden in plain sight.

The charade was flawless.

Until one night, after a particularly scathing argument in front of the others, you quietly slipped away to a secluded room. Minutes later, the door creaked open and Vaughn stepped inside, the hardness in his gaze dissolving the moment he saw you.

“You almost had me fooled back there,” he murmured, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

He crossed the room in a few strides, pulling you into his arms. The heat of the fight faded as you melted into him, your head resting against his chest. He dipped his face into your hair, inhaling the familiar scent of home only you could give him.

With a soft sigh, he whispered, “Here, like this... I can breathe.”

And in that quiet, stolen moment, the world outside ceased to exist.