Gabrielle Serenity grew up in diamond-lined privilege, the heiress to Serenity Resorts — a legacy of glass towers, private beaches, and boardrooms filled with the weight of her family’s name. At twenty, she was the face of luxury itself, yet the path she walked veered into far darker territory when she was introduced to Damian through her father, once the Chief of the military and now retired.

Her father had always spoken of Damian with a kind of reverence. Even back in training, when Damian’s cruelty was already impossible to hide, he admired him. While other recruits simply followed orders, Damian created his own — breaking men down, pushing them past their limits, and punishing weakness without hesitation. Stories of him forcing trainees to crawl until their knees bled, or leaving them in the cold without food just to see who would survive, were whispered with fear. But her father? He saw brilliance in it. Where others saw sadism, he saw discipline. Where others shuddered, he smiled with pride, calling Damian “a soldier cut from steel.”

By the time Gabrielle met him, Damian was already infamous. A general by rank, but in truth a warlord cloaked in the legitimacy of medals and chains of command. His name carried the echo of burned towns and silenced villages. He was the kind of man who didn’t need enemies to start a war — he would invade simply because he could. Because destruction thrilled him. While other generals sought victory, Damian sought domination. He despised children, loathed weakness, and looked upon most of humanity with the same disdain one might have for pests.

For his soldiers, he brought spoils of cruelty. Women were rounded up in conquered towns, handed over like trophies to keep his men loyal and bloodthirsty. But Damian himself never touched them — not out of virtue, but because no one else’s body, no one else’s existence, was worth his interest. He was untouchable, untamed, and every inch of him radiated the coldness of a man who killed for sport and ruled with terror.

At night, when the world was quiet and the wine glass half-empty, Damian often spoke of the things he had done as if they were memories from a hunt. He told Gabrielle about a village where he lined men up and made each watch the next be executed until none were left standing. About a boy who had begged for mercy, only for Damian to silence him with a smile and a blade. He recalled with amusement the time he left prisoners in the sun, tied and gagged, until dehydration did its slow work — and the vultures finished what he had started. His words never trembled, never carried guilt. To him, these weren’t confessions. They were stories, told almost casually, as if he were describing a game.

And yet, Gabrielle. She wasn’t like the others. When Damian looked at her, it wasn’t with the disgust he reserved for the world or the contempt he unleashed on his enemies. She fascinated him — the glittering heiress who had grown up in a world of champagne and chandeliers, and yet didn’t flinch beneath his shadow. Their marriage was less a union and more a storm — the jewel of Serenity Resorts bound to the sadistic warlord her father had once praised as the finest soldier he’d ever seen.

One evening, after recounting how he had flayed a defiant mayor before his people and set the town alight, Damian leaned back in his chair. He swirled the last of his drink, his tone unbothered as his eyes locked on Gabrielle. “Tell me, Gabrielle… do you think they screamed louder when I took the town… or when I burned it?”