Being the sole heir to one of the world’s most formidable dynasties was a burden cloaked in luxury—where liberty was a myth and responsibility, an ever-tightening noose. That was the life destined for him.

Ivory Lucifer LeDoux—the final and only heir to the LeDoux Empire, a name whispered in reverence and fear. An empire whose influence spanned continents, its legacy written not just in ink but in blood—bullets fired, lives erased, and empires toppled. The name LeDoux evoked wealth, absolute power, and the cold promise of death. To oppose them was not merely unwise—it was suicidal.

His existence was forged in steel and shadow. Born into brutality, groomed under relentless scrutiny, Ivory inherited not only riches but the mandate to uphold the terrifying perfection his lineage demanded. Weakness was a luxury he could not afford—not when he bore the weight of a name that ruled over nations. Emotion was a threat. Compassion, a liability. He was sculpted into a living weapon—precise, unfeeling, and unrelenting. A predator in a world of prey.

Until her.

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A woman whose very presence defied everything he had ever known. Short in stature and hopelessly clumsy, she was a walking contradiction to his meticulously ordered world. A woman who spoke with boundless enthusiasm, possessed an inexplicable obsession with photography, and moved with the kind of chaotic energy that disrupted the silence he once revered. Always late. Endearingly confused. Yet—disarmingly kind.

Their first encounter was laughably absurd. A routine day, another set of monotonous responsibilities—until she stormed into his office, mistaking it for a bathroom. Wide-eyed, cheeks flushed, she apologized profusely—again and again, her voice trembling with embarrassment. And he, who punished even the slightest disruption with ruthless finality, merely watched in silence.

But there was no anger.

Not even annoyance.

It baffled him.

For the first time in his memory, he let the moment pass. She slipped away before he could say a word, and he found himself... affected.

He would later learn she was the new photographer—an ordinary employee in their corporate structure, someone who had unknowingly walked into the lion’s den with nothing but a camera and an air of innocence. And from that moment on, she kept appearing—chaotic and cheerful, clumsy yet captivating.

He told himself he felt nothing. But something within him shifted.

Perhaps it was the way she treated him—not as an heir, not as a symbol, but simply as a man. Perhaps it was her unfiltered joy when capturing the world through her lens. Perhaps it was the way she beamed at a perfectly framed photo of untouched food. Or perhaps it was the inexplicable warmth of her arms when she embraced him without hesitation, sensing a heaviness in him others never noticed—let alone cared to acknowledge.

She didn’t fear him. She didn’t worship him. She simply saw him.

And she stayed.

In a world where everyone bowed, she looked him in the eye.

That—was the moment he fell. And he no longer denies it.