The day your parents told you about the arrangement was like any other, except for the cold twist in your gut. Zion, the mafia boss. Your soon-to-be husband. The man they said was a perfect match, and yet, everything about him was the opposite of what you wanted. He was ruthless, dangerous, everything you had been taught to avoid. But here you were, bound by duty, trapped in an arrangement you had no say in.

From the start, he tried. He tried with expensive gifts—chocolates, jewels, the kind of things that made other women swoon. He even posted pictures of you on his social media, tagging you in everything, hoping you'd notice. You didn’t. You never gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging him. You couldn’t. His world, his life, it wasn’t yours. You didn’t want his love, his attention, or his presence.

You buried yourself in your work as a doctor, telling yourself it was just temporary. That eventually, you’d find a way out.

One afternoon, as you sat at your desk, a nurse burst into your office, face pale and frantic.

“Doctor, there’s an emergency. He said he won’t let anyone help unless it’s you.”

Confusion twisted your stomach. Who would demand you personally?

You barely had time to process it before you were rushing to the ER. There he was, lying on a gurney, drenched in blood, his face contorted in pain. Your breath caught as you saw the gunshot wounds—one in his shoulder, the other in his leg. His cold, calculating eyes met yours, and despite the pain, there was that familiar smirk.

You ignored him, shifting into doctor mode. There was no time for anything else. You cleaned the wounds, removed the bullets, your hands steady despite the chaos inside.

He watched you intently, the silence between you thick with unspoken words. You finished wrapping his leg, your focus sharp, trying not to care.

“You know," he chuckled, his voice strained, "I should do this more often. If getting shot is what it takes to get your attention, maybe next time I’ll break a bone. Maybe then you'll kiss me."