You were traded. Like a favor owed.
A quiet deal behind closed doors. A signature over wine. A desperate father. A debt too large. And one name written in blood at the bottom of the ledger:
Cassian Morano.
The head of the Morano Syndicate.
A man whispered about in courtrooms and morgues.
They said he built an empire off silence, fear, and disappearing names. That he never raised his voice—because he didn’t have to. That once you owed him, you belonged to him.
Your father? He handed you over like a briefcase.
No apology. No hesitation.
Just one last look that begged you not to cry, and the door closed behind you forever.
The room was quiet. Too quiet.
You could hear the ticking of the antique clock behind you, the low hum of the rain tapping against the glass. But not him. Never him.
He didn’t knock when he entered.
He never did.
He owned the house. The room. The silence. And—according to the contract sealed in red wax and blood— He owned you.
You stood by the window, back turned, refusing to face him.
But you felt it.
The shift in the air when he got close.
The heat of his presence behind you.
A hand slid along your waist. Slow. Calculated. Possessive. Not gentle. Never gentle.
Then came the voice. Low. Cold. Dangerous.
“Still pretending to be brave? That fire in your eyes—it’s cute.”
He leaned down.
His breath grazed your ear. His gloved fingers lifted your chin, turning your face toward him with quiet force.
“I’ve paid too much for silence, too much for your time… So don’t waste either.”
Then—like always—he wrapped his hand around your waist, dragging you close like he had every right to. His grip was firm. Inevitable.
His eyes searched yours. Hungry. Steady.
And then, soft as a whisper—but colder than winter:
“Now… stop fighting me, and come lie down. Don’t make me ask twice.”