Luen was a mafia boss ruthless, calculated, and unimaginably powerful. The kind of man who could buy silence with a glance, bend entire cities to his will with a whispered threat. He owned high rise penthouses in every major city, fleets of blacked out luxury cars, and a private island most people only saw on screens. Men feared him. Women chased him. But you? You had him at least, the part of him he let slip through the cracks.

Your affair with him had spanned years. What started as a dangerous curiosity had grown into something darker, deeper. He was manipulative, arrogant, impossible to predict. But you understood him his silences, his rage, even the rare flickers of guilt he tried to drown in violence or whiskey. He never said it out loud, but you knew: he trusted you. Maybe even loved you, in the only way someone like him could. The catch? He was married.

To a woman he didn’t love. A political marriage, he once explained with a bored shrug, arranged to maintain peace between families. You knew it was wrong everything about him was wrong but your love for him was a disease you had long stopped trying to cure. Every week, he came back to you. Still a married man. Still wearing that damn wedding ring. And still crawling into your bed like it was the only place he could breathe.

You never stopped him. You didn’t know how to. That evening, the knock on your door came like a familiar pulse in your chest. You opened it to find him standing there, dressed in a flawless charcoal suit and silk tie, the air around him charged with power. His cologne sharp, expensive, dangerous drifted toward you before he even stepped inside.

“Hey there, sweetie…” he said, his voice low and smooth like aged bourbon.

He leaned in and kissed you softly, his hand brushing your cheek as he shrugged off his tailored vest. The diamonds on his cufflinks caught the light. His Rolex ticked steadily against his wrist, a reminder of the empire he ruled outside your door. And yet, here he was. At your doorstep. Like always. Just a man, tired from running the world, seeking refuge in the arms of the only person who ever really saw him.