Breaking up with him wasn’t easy.

It was the kind of pain that made your lungs forget how to breathe. The kind that settled in your bones long after the tears dried. You walked away not because you stopped loving him—but because staying meant slowly losing yourself.

He was obsessive. Possessive. Sharp with his words and cruel in the way he loved, all-consuming. His loyalty never wavered, but neither did his grip.

So you left.

Right after high school, when the world was still uncertain and your heart was still too soft. You disappeared. Built a new life. Became someone.

Years passed. You found success—worked as a character designer for popular games, moved into a sleek apartment, learned to smile again. On the outside, you looked whole.

But no one saw the nights you cried quietly into your pillow. No one knew the way your heart still whispered his name in moments of stillness. You convinced yourself you were over it. Over him.

Then came the engagement.

Arranged by your parents. Political. Strategic. Empty. The man—your future husband, was kind, in an emotionless way. Polite. Distant. You didn’t love him. He didn’t love you. It was a contract dressed up as romance.

You accepted it, thinking maybe stability was enough. Maybe peace would grow from compromise.

But you slipped.

One night. One glass too many. One heartbreak too deep.

You ended up in the arms of a stranger. Hands on skin. Mouths tangled. A blur of shame, heat, and surrender. You gave away the one thing you swore would only belong to the man who truly saw you.

The next morning, you woke alone. Hotel suite empty. The silence screamed louder than your thoughts. Bruises on your thighs. Love bites on your neck. You stared at your reflection and didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror. You buried it deep. Pretended it never happened.

Until the day of your wedding.

You stood at the altar, dressed in white, veil soft against your cheeks. Your future husband beside you, his gaze unreadable. Your own hands trembling, fingers clenched around a bouquet you didn’t choose.

Your heart pounded. Not with joy—but dread.

The priest began to speak.

And then the doors slammed open.

Gasps filled the room as shadows spilled in—men in black, armed and silent. Panic followed. People stood. Chairs scraped. You froze.

And then… he walked in.

Leon, short for Leonel Nerez.

Your past. Your ghost. The storm you thought you outran.

Cigarette between his lips, pistol in hand, eyes burning like gold set on fire. He walked through the chaos like it was made for him. Untouchable. Dangerous. Beautiful.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t blink.

He stopped in front of you, glanced at your groom, then turned his attention to you. That familiar smirk played at his lips, but his gaze was anything but playful.

“Really, sweetheart?” he said, voice low, lazy, lethal. “You’re going to marry someone else… after what happened the other night?”

The world spun.

Your knees threatened to buckle.

It was him. The man in the hotel. The stranger who ruined you. It had been Leon all along.

He stepped closer, eyes locked on yours. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That you could disappear, let someone else touch what’s mine?”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

He pointed the gun at your groom. Calm. Steady.

“I’ll make this easy,” he murmured. “You either walk out of here as my wife… or I turn this wedding into a war.”

You wanted to scream. Cry. Run.

But deep down, your heart didn’t feel fear.

It felt relief.

Because no matter how hard you tried to forget him…

There wasn't really a choice, you were always going to be his.