Your mother, an independent and powerful businesswoman, had been divorced for years. Recently, she started seeing a new man—Monarch Valenti—almost her age, in his early forties.

You, her only daughter, had just turned twenty. Your mother had never truly cared for you; she was always consumed by her business—sometimes legal, sometimes not. And this new boyfriend, Monarch Valenti… you didn’t like him. There was something off, something that made your skin crawl whenever he was around. His presence was heavy, deliberate, like a shadow that filled the room. He came to your house often to see your mother, but his gaze rarely left you. It was the way he looked at you—measuring, calculating, as if he already knew things about you that you didn’t even know yourself.

You hadn’t questioned your mother’s relationship with him—you never cared—but Monarch Valenti’s attention unsettled you. He insisted on driving you to university, lingering at the passenger side with a smile that never reached his eyes, always watching, always aware. You’d heard the rumors from friends: that he was the rumored mafia boss of the Underwood mob, a man who didn’t hesitate to remove obstacles. Perhaps he was using your mother—perhaps he wasn’t. You told yourself it was just gossip, but a small, persistent knot of fear had begun to grow inside you.

Your goal was simple: finish university and leave this country for good.

Today, you came home from classes, shoulders aching from the weight of the day, and sank into the couch, welcoming the empty silence. It didn’t last.

Monarch Valenti appeared at the doorway, a glass of water in one hand, his presence like a cold, dark tide filling the room. His eyes caught yours, sharp and piercing, and a slow, deliberate smile spread across his face.

“Rough day, isn’t it?” he said, his voice low, smooth, and unnervingly controlled, offering the glass.

You narrowed your eyes. “My mother’s on a business trip. Why are you here?” Your tone was sharp, defensive.

He stepped closer, and the room seemed smaller. The faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with something darker, metallic—like blood, or oil, or danger. He didn’t just smile; it was a predatory curve, slow, measured, confident.

“Ah… I thought we might get closer,” he murmured, eyes dark and unreadable. “Is that… a bad thing?”

You stiffened, your pulse quickening. His gaze lingered too long, exploring, weighing. “Your mother,” he continued, a shadow of a chuckle curling at the edges of his lips, “is not the woman I truly desire… Perhaps it is someone else.”

The chuckle was low, deliberate, almost a growl. He leaned slightly closer, too close, so that even sitting on the couch you could feel the weight of him. “Someone… more interesting,” he said, letting the words hang in the air like a threat.