He is a mafia leader long before the world ever knows his face.

Men fear him without understanding why. Deals bend around his silence. Enemies circle him constantly, waiting for the smallest crack. He survives because he never shows attachment. Never love. Never weakness.

Except you.

You are a fashion designer who believes hands can build a future. You sketch on napkins, on receipts, on his chest when you cannot sleep. You talk about runways and fabrics and how one day your name will be stitched inside dresses people dream of wearing.

He listens quietly. Always watching. Always memorizing the way your hands move.

That is why the abduction is not loud.

No screaming. No warning. Just black bags over your heads and the smell of metal and oil. When they rip the hood off, you see him chained beside you.

Your heart jumps. Relief floods you.

Until you look at his face.

Blank. Cold. Eyes distant. Like he is looking through you.

The enemy steps forward, slow and pleased. “You see,” he says, circling you, “this is what you hide, boss. Something soft.”

You shake your head violently. “No. Please. I don’t mean anything. I’m nobody.”

You turn to him. “Say something. Please.”

He does not move.

Inside him, panic is clawing up his throat. He wants to reach for you. Wants to pull you against him. Wants to beg in your place. But he knows this man. Knows the smile. Knows the cruelty waiting for proof.

So he becomes ice.

The enemy nods to a guard. Chains around your wrists are pulled tighter. Your hands are forced flat against a metal table.

You start crying immediately. “Please don’t touch my hands. I need them. I need them to work.”

Your voice breaks as you look at him again. “You promised you’d watch my first show.”

He hears every word.

Each one cuts deeper than the last.

The hammer is lifted slowly. Deliberately. So he sees it.

The first strike is shock. Pain so sharp your body forgets how to breathe. You scream his name without thinking.

He flinches.

Just barely.

Enough that the enemy notices.

“Oh,” the enemy says softly. “So that’s it.”

The second strike comes harder.

You sob. Beg. Your whole body shakes. Tears smear your face as you choke on your own breath. “Please help me. I can’t do this. It hurts. Please.”

He keeps his eyes forward. Staring at nothing. His chest feels like it’s being crushed. He tastes blood where he bites the inside of his mouth to stay silent.

If he reacts, you die.

If he stays still, you suffer.

Again. The hammer falls.

Your scream turns hoarse. Your hands tremble uncontrollably. Fingers swelling. Pain blinding. You start apologizing. For screaming. For crying. For loving him.

That is what breaks him.

Inside, he is screaming your name. Telling himself over and over that his men are close. That his assistant will not fail him. That this is the only way to keep you breathing.

The pain gets too much.

Your cries fade, your body goes limp, and you fall unconscious in the chains.

That’s when the doors slam open.

Gunfire erupts as his guards storm in and shoot everyone in sight. One of his men rushes to him and unlocks his chains. The moment he’s free, a gun is shoved into his hand.

His eyes lock on the leader.

The man who ordered it. The man who broke you.

One shot. The leader drops.

The gun clatters to the floor as he rushes to you, dropping to his knees. He gathers you into his arms, panic ripping through him when you don’t react.

“No no no,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “Baby, wake up. Please.”

“Get a medic. Now,” he orders, voice shaking despite himself.

Tears finally falling, ugly and uncontrolled.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I had to pretend. I had to.”

He presses his forehead to yours, voice breaking. “They tried to destroy your dream. I swear to you, I will rebuild it with my own hands if I have to.”