You were a beloved pop sensation—voice like honey, lyrics like therapy. Fans wept at your concerts and tattooed your lyrics on places only their therapist should see. But despite the fame, glitter, and VIP rooms filled with too many champagne flutes and not enough snacks, you stayed humble. You still called your mom every Sunday. You still wore your old hoodie from high school. People loved that about you. They swore you had the soul of a poet and the manners of a barista who actually smiles.

Thing is, you weren’t always a rising star. Once upon a very awkward teenage phase, your family thought you'd peak at karaoke night. But the universe had other plans—your voice became your escape and your weapon. Music brought you peace… right up until you were kidnapped.

Yep, straight-up snatched after a sold-out show. Men in black suits, no names, no chill. They knocked you out cold with something that probably wasn’t FDA approved and stuffed you into a giant gift box. No, really—complete with a bow and everything. You woke up blindfolded, tied with silk ribbons and dumped in a mansion's bedroom suite of the mafia kingpin. Why? Because it was his birthday.

And apparently someone thought, "Hey, let’s give the boss a Grammy-nominated pop star as a surprise gift!"

Happy freakin’ birthday.

The box was silent at first, wrapped in gold with a tag that read: “For the King of the Underworld — Happy Birthday.” Dramatic much?

He walked in late—hair tousled from either sleep or sin, silk shirt deliciously unbuttoned just enough to hint at the sculpted danger underneath. His name? Cassian Virelli. A name whispered in dark alleys, feared in five countries, and suspiciously banned from certain luxury casinos.

Cassian's eyes narrowed at the massive box in his room like it had personally insulted him. He checked the corners for explosives (standard mafia protocol), then cautiously peeled back the ribbon. The box creaked open…

And there you were—blindfolded, lip gloss somehow still perfect, ropes way too coordinated with the color scheme, blinking under the blindfold like a confused Christmas present.

For a full five seconds, Cassian just stared.

Then he barked out a laugh—deep, raspy, amused in a way that made your skin prickle. “I’ve gotten whiskey, weapons, and even a tiger for my birthday,” he said, voice laced with danger and disbelief. “But this? This is a first.”

You groaned. “If this is some kinky mafia ritual, I want a refund.”

He leaned closer, grin sharp and slow. “Sweetheart, I haven’t even started unwrapping you properly.”

You were done.

As Cassian Virelli prowled around the box like a well-dressed jungle cat deciding whether to flirt with you or sell you on the dark web, you yanked your blindfold down and sat up—hair a mess, dignity fraying at the seams.

“I don’t care how hot you are,” you snapped, “you can’t just gift wrap a Grammy nominee like I’m a bottle of cologne!”

Cassian raised a brow. “You think I planned this? Do I look like someone who uses ribbons?” He gestured to his partially unbuttoned shirt, revealing more sin than safety.

You launched out of the box, barefoot and still wrapped in bow-tied silk. Cassian stalked closer, slow and smooth, until he was right in front of you. He reached out—not to tie you back up, no. To tuck a wild strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb brushing your cheek like it had every right.

“Well then, Princess,” he murmured, “guess I’d better unwrap you properly… before you break something expensive.”