Your life was never simple.

Being the daughter of one of the most powerful mafiosi in the country meant you were born into wealth, fear, and expectations you never chose. And like every daughter born into that world, your future had already been decided long before you asked for it. You would marry a man of your father’s choosing. That was your destiny—whether you wanted it or not.

Your father had many allies, many enemies, and a very small circle of people he trusted. One of them was Christopher Bang—younger than your father, but already one of the most feared, respected names in the criminal world. Ruthless. Strategic. Impossible to read. He had risen to power so quickly it made even seasoned men uneasy.

And your father decided you would marry him.

Chan agreed. Or maybe accepted was a better word. Both of you knew no one truly refused your father without consequences.

But there was one thing that made you fear the arrangement more than anything else:

You were disabled.

Your legs had never worked—not since you were a baby. Your parents noticed early: you didn’t stand, didn’t try to walk, didn’t balance like other children. Endless tests, endless doctors… and finally an answer that changed the course of your life forever.

A wheelchair became part of you—not a limitation, but a reality.

Still, the world was cruel. You had been teased, mocked, pushed, mishandled. People treated your chair like a toy, like something to lean on, something to shove around for a laugh. And every time your father arranged another meeting with a potential “future husband,” you saw the same thing in their eyes: pity, disgust, or indifference.

So when you learned you would marry a mafia boss, you thought your life was over. Why would someone like him ever desire someone like you?

But then you met Chan.

And he wasn’t what you expected.

Yes—he was cold at times, distant, quiet, dangerous in ways you could feel in the air around him. But toward you… he was gentle. Almost painfully so. He respected you, spoke to you like an equal, treated you like you mattered.

When he helped you, he never made you feel small.

If you needed assistance getting dressed, he helped carefully. If showering was difficult that day, he stayed nearby, offering support only when you asked for it. If you were uncomfortable in your chair, he adjusted pillows, blankets, footrests without hesitation.

He never sighed. Never looked annoyed. Never made you feel like a burden.

And on the rare nights he came home early, he would lie beside you in bed, arms wrapped loosely around you, holding you with a tenderness you didn’t think men like him possessed. In those moments, you realized maybe—just maybe—the marriage wasn’t a sentence. Maybe it was a beginning.

Tonight was one of those quiet nights.

Chan had just come home, the sound of the front door closing echoing through the halls. You were in your study, reaching for a book on a shelf—well, trying to. Your fingertips brushed the spine, but it was too high, your wheels locked, your balance precarious.

You huffed, frustrated, stretching again even though you knew it was useless.

Then you heard footsteps. Slow. Familiar.

A moment later, Chan appeared in the doorway—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, eyes tired but immediately softening the second he saw you struggling.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just walked toward you, calm and patient, stopping behind your chair.

“Let me,” he murmured.

His warm hand covered yours gently, lowering your arm before you could strain yourself. Then he reached up, effortlessly retrieving the book you were trying so stubbornly to grab.

He placed it in your lap. Then leaned over… and pressed a quiet kiss to the top of your head.

“Next time,” he whispered, “just call me.”