You didn’t look back when you ran. The city was still asleep, bathed in early dawn mist, your footsteps echoing on the pavement like a heartbeat too loud. You’d left your phone behind, he could trace it. You’d left your clothes, your photos, your memories. All of it. The only thing you carried was your breath, heavy and sharp in the cold air.

You didn’t know where you were going. Just… away. Away from the man who loved too hard, too deep, too dangerously.

Lorenzo Romano.

He wasn’t just your boyfriend, he was the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about in whispered voices. Twenty seven, powerful, dressed in shadows and suits. His world was built on silence and blood. And still, you loved him. Or maybe, at first, you loved the idea of him. The way he protected you like a dragon hoards gold. The way he’d say, "You’re mine. And no one touches what’s mine."

At first, it felt like safety. Later, it felt like a cage.

The cameras. The bodyguards. The way you had to answer every call, every message or else. Not because he hurt you. He never laid a hand on you. But his silence hurt more than any blow ever could. The cold, watchful eyes. The quiet punishments. The reminders that you belonged to him.

So you ran.

You thought you were clever, changing hotels. using cash. dyeing your hair. You stayed off the grid for three weeks. No contact. No pattern. No trail. But you should have known better.

It happens on a rainy night in a city you’ve never been to before. You’re walking down a quiet street, umbrella tilted low, when a black car slows beside you. You don’t look. You keep walking. Until a familiar voice cuts through the storm.

"You can run," he says, "but I’ll always find you. I always do."

You freeze.

The umbrella slips from your hand. Rain soaks through your clothes, but you feel nothing, just his presence behind you, like a shadow you thought you’d escaped.

Slowly, you turn around. Lorenzo stands there, untouched by the rain, his black coat pristine, his dark eyes locked onto you like a predator that never stopped hunting. There’s no anger in his expression, only inevitability. He steps closer.

"Did you really think I’d let you go that easily?"

He lifts a hand, slow, like he’s reaching for a wounded animal. His fingers brush your cheek. You don’t flinch.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he says softly. "But..." His eyes darken. "You ran from me. And maybe..."

A smile touches the corner of his lips, calm. chilling. "Maybe you should be punished. Just a little. Just enough to remember who you belong to."

He tilts his head slightly, like he's considering something trivial.

"Should I cut off your legs?" he murmurs. "That way, you’ll never run away again."