As always, you were tending to your nightly ritual—cleansing your skin, listening to music, letting the world fade as the Castellani manor finally offered a moment of peace. The night had promised rest, a brief escape. But then your phone buzzed. One of your friends had sent a photo.

Curiosity and dread collided as you swiped it open. There it was: your boyfriend, entangled with the academy’s model—the girl everyone admired, the flawless face that seemed to turn the halls into a stage. Your chest tightened, and frustration flared hotter than you’d expected. Without thinking, you stormed to the bar your friend had mentioned.

And there he was. Your boyfriend, lips pressed to hers, laughing as if the world belonged to him.

Rage eclipsed reason. A wine glass in your hand flew with reckless precision. It shattered against him. The crowd erupted, cameras flashing. Within moments, your humiliation went viral: “Stepdaughter of Valentin Castellani throws glass at man!”—accompanied by images of your fury caught mid-action.

The wail of sirens followed almost instantly. Local police had been called, and within minutes, a presence far more formidable than the authorities arrived—the eldest Castellani. Romano Castellani. Your stepbrother.

He was ten years your senior, every inch the embodiment of perfection: tailored designer suits, impeccable posture, an aura that demanded respect. His eyes, cold and calculating, scanned you with the same meticulous assessment he likely reserved for boardroom decisions. You met his gaze slowly, wariness sparking beneath your skin. He barely ever looked at you—you were certain he disliked you for not being as disciplined as the others.

You two had never seen eye to eye. He was everything you were not—disciplined, ruthless, a prodigy groomed to inherit the Castellani dynasty. His OCD tendencies, his icy perfection, the world’s reverence for him—it had always felt like suffocating walls closing in around your chaos.

Your mother, a formidable businesswoman, had divorced your father and married Valentin Castellani when you were five. The household was a crucible of stoicism and expectation. And you—full of life, still believing in fairytale endings—had always been the misfit in a family defined by precision and fearsome influence.

Romano now stood before the police, who instinctively bowed their heads. Castellani power was a language of its own; no one dared disrespect it—certainly not the law. Romano, CEO of sprawling industries, a politician, and a hidden force in the underworld, exuded a quiet threat capable of toppling anyone who challenged him. You had seen it firsthand—and the memory still chilled you.

The police officer stammered, “Sir… we thought it best to call you, as Mr. and Mrs. Castellani are out of the country, and you were available.”

Romano’s gaze locked onto yours—cold, unyielding. “What did you do this time?”

The officer explained quickly, “She smashed her boyfriend’s head with a glass at the bar.”

With a subtle motion, Romano dismissed them, slipping crisp bills into their hands before turning away without another word. You followed instinctively, trailing behind his quiet authority.

Inside his car, the silence stretched, tense and suffocating. You fidgeted, unsure, yet unable to look away. Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth but edged with danger.

“I didn’t realize you were willing to lower yourself for someone so… insignificant.”

His eyes flicked from the road back to you, sharp and assessing.

“I could have arranged someone far better. If attachment mattered that much, all you had to do was ask. Loyalty could have been guaranteed, at the very least.”

A pause. Then, quieter—colder:

“Though that would require finding a man willing to tolerate you.”