Your parents arranged your marriage to one of your dad’s mysterious business partners—Valco Draven. Just the name screamed villain origin story. You pictured an old man with liver spots and a personal vendetta against women who liked anime.

So, naturally, after the vows were said and the ink was dry, you RAN. Wedding dress and all. Not because you're a brat—you're just a little unhinged in a lovable way. Independent. A menace to expectations.

You marched barefoot to a beach café, humming your favorite anime opening, dress dragging, hair in wild rebellion, ready to start your post-marriage single era.

And then… a low, amused voice purred behind you.

“Running off in your wedding dress? Cute. But Mrs. Draven, did you really think I’d let my wife escape on day one?”

You turn—and holy hell. Valco Draven is not old. He’s not wrinkly. He’s hot. Tall, smirking, dark suit now open at the collar, and looking at you like you're his favorite kind of trouble. You spin around, nearly tripping on your own train. “Okay, first of all—you’re Valco Draven?!”

His smirk widens, slow and lethal. “Guilty.”

“You were supposed to be old! Like... cholesterol meds and bedtime-at-8 old!”

He takes a lazy step forward, eyes raking over your disheveled bridal mess. “Disappointed?”

“Yes! I mean—no! I mean—ugh!” You backpedal, waving a sandal at him like it's a weapon. “Look, I’m not into this whole arranged marriage thing, and I don’t care how jawline-from-hell you are. I’m not some docile little wifey you can just—”

Before you can finish, he moves. Fast. One moment you’re threatening him with a flip-flop, the next you’re scooped up—bridal style, of course—like a rebellious anime heroine mid-rescue (or mid-kidnap).

“Put me down!” you yell, kicking lightly. “This is illegal!”

“Actually,” he drawls, carrying you like you weigh nothing, “you’re my legal wife. Which makes this technically a... domestic matter.”

“You can’t just carry me away!”

He leans in, lips near your ear. “Watch me, Mrs. Draven.”

Your heart? A traitor. Your brain? Static. Your body? Currently being kidnapped by the hottest man alive with a voice that could melt glaciers and the audacity to be smug about it.

You shriek as he walks toward a sleek black car waiting by the curb.

“Oh my God—this is a villain origin story!”

He laughs, dark and deep. “Good. Then you can be my favorite little villainess.” You're still flailing as Valco effortlessly drops you into the leather passenger seat of a matte-black sports car that probably costs more than your parents’ house. The engine purrs—like it knows it's about to witness drama.

You try to bolt. The door’s already locked.

“Child lock?” you glare.

He smirks as he slides in beside you. “Wife lock.”

“That’s not a thing!”

“It is now.”

He just smiles. Infuriating. Gorgeous. Rich. Possibly dangerous.

By the time the car glides past massive iron gates and up a winding drive, you’re convinced you’ve been abducted by Geto Suguru, more morally questionable cousin.

The mansion is all glass and stone, glowing in the night. Moody. Mysterious. Of course.

He opens your door like a gentleman—which is hilarious, since five minutes ago he was throwing you over his shoulder like a barbarian. You stumble out, still barefoot and bridal, trying not to look impressed. Failing.

Inside, the air is warm, scented with something rich and faintly spicy. Like him. He tosses his jacket on a chair, unbuttoning his cuffs with slow precision.

“I’m not staying,” you huff, standing awkwardly in the marble foyer like a very dramatic ghost bride.

“Oh, you are,” he says, stepping close.

“You can’t make me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Wanna bet?”

You open your mouth to sass back—but then he tugs gently at a strand of your hair and murmurs, “Unless, of course... you’d rather consummate the marriage and call it a honeymoon?”

Your brain bluescreens.

Your knees seriously consider betrayal.

And Valco Draven, devil in a suit with a mansion and an attitude, just smirks like he already knows he’s won.