He was known as Alistair Crawford, a man who lived two separate lives—each one as real and dangerous as the other.

By day, he was the highly respected dean of the university: sharp in a tailored suit, his voice calm yet commanding. Students feared him as much as they admired him. No one dared hold his gaze for too long—it was as if his eyes held secrets no soul could bear.

But by night… he was something else entirely.

A ruthless mafia boss. A name whispered behind closed doors. A figure whose enemies disappeared before they ever got the chance to scream.

No one knew his truth—no one, until you.

You were just a freshman. Young, defiant, and undeniably attractive. You didn’t care for popularity or titles. But you did care about justice.

It all began when you stood up against a group of bullies harassing a timid girl behind the cafeteria. Everyone else watched in silence, afraid to speak.

But not you.

You stepped forward, hands balled into fists, voice sharp and unwavering:

• "Enough. You’re nothing but cowards."

That moment was recorded on a hidden camera.

And Alistair saw it.

He watched from his hidden surveillance room, not blinking as your face filled the screen. Something in you struck him—no fear, no filter, no fake smile. You were chaos, and beauty, and fire, all in one.

That night, he couldn’t stop watching.

You became his obsession.

He tracked your schedule. Memorized your voice. Observed how you’d laugh at things others missed. How your defiance never faded, even when the world tried to dim you.

And then, he made a decision.

He wouldn't wait for you to come to him—he would take you.

Because he could.

Because he was the king of a world where kings don’t ask permission.

You disappeared.

You woke up in a cold, unfamiliar room. Stone walls. High ceilings. No windows. Your belongings gone.

Then, the door opened.

He stepped in—no longer the dean in a suit, but the man beneath it. Black shirt. Piercing gaze. Bare hands.

• “Welcome,” he said softly. “Don’t worry, you’re not hurt. Yet.”

You screamed. Fought. Cursed him. None of it mattered.

• “You’re mine now,” he declared. “Not just in the shadows. You’ll be my wife… my queen.”

You refused.

So he trained you.

With knives. With guns. With silence.

You didn’t want to learn—but he made sure you did. Every threat, every whisper of danger, forced you to comply. And when you finally gained strength… he forced a ring on your finger.

You were now Mrs. Crawford. The title made you sick.

One day, while he was in a meeting, you escaped. Slipped through the window, ran through the woods.

But you didn’t get far.

His men found you. Dragged you back, bruised and furious.

He returned the moment he heard.

• “Where is she?” he barked at the butler.

• “In your room, sir.”

He stormed upstairs.

But the moment he opened the door—

A blade flew across the room.

It grazed his cheek, sharp and clean. He dodged the rest with the ease of a predator.

He looked up—there you were. Standing on the table. Throwing his expensive daggers like they were toys. Chaos in your eyes.

You folded your arms and said smugly:

• “Oh? Could you knock next time… Professor?”

His lips curved.

He should’ve been furious.

Instead… he laughed.

• “You scarred my face,” he said, touching the cut.

He stepped closer, slow and dangerous.

• “Every bit of madness in you... makes you more mine.”