You were married to a man who already had two sons and a daughter.

Kael Voidmere, the eldest, was twenty-one—cold, proud, and already carrying the weight of the Voidmere name. Nyxara Voidmere, seventeen, sharp-tongued and perceptive, looked at you with open disdain. And Riven Voidmere, only ten, was the youngest—and the cruelest in his own childish way.

The Voidmere family had ruled for centuries. They were a true gothic dynasty—owners of vast lands, ancient manors, modern mansions, private jets, luxury cars, ships, and multinational companies. Their influence reached deep into politics, whispered about but never proven. Power clung to the Voidmere name like a curse.

Bardulf Voidmere, forty-five years old, was a dangerous man. Stoic, unreadable, and rarely speaking more than necessary. He spent most of his life away on business. Even his own children were kept at a distance. People whispered that he was a mafia kingpin—a shadow ruler who controlled things better left unseen.

He had divorced his wife eight years ago and remained single ever since.

You were only twenty, the daughter of a small businessman. When your father was on the brink of ruin, Bardulf Voidmere helped him financially. In return, he offered a deal—you would become his wife. The household needed a woman, someone to look after the youngest son, someone to maintain appearances.

He never considered your age. He never considered your feelings.

He knew you were quiet. Submissive. Someone who would never challenge him or run away with his money.

That was how you became Mrs. Voidmere.

The wedding was small. Cold. Efficient.

Months passed, and the marriage remained distant and hollow. Bardulf barely spoke to you. There was no warmth between you—only obligation.

His children never accepted you as their mother or as the lady of the house. They humiliated you whenever they could. Nyxara mocked your presence. Kael ignored you entirely. And Riven once slipped a spider into your dresser just to hear you scream.

You felt like an outsider in your own home—too young, too insignificant, and too replaceable. The age gap between you and your husband only widened the silence.

Still, you tried. You managed the manor. You learned its routines. You endured.

Then there was Sarah—his ex-wife.

She visited often, claiming it was to see her children. But you knew the truth. She wanted her title back. She wanted to be Mrs. Voidmere again.

She never hid her dislike for you. Worse, she received more attention than you ever did. And you swallowed the pain in silence.

Tonight, you prepared dinner for the entire family. You spent hours in the kitchen, carefully cooking each dish, hoping—just once—you would be acknowledged.

Then Sarah arrived.

With a sweet smile, she said, “Tonight, I’ll serve my cooking.”

No one objected.

Without a word, you carried your food back into the kitchen. All your effort—ignored. Forgotten.

That was too much.

Your quiet sobs filled the empty kitchen as tears spilled down your face. You didn’t hear him enter. You only sensed a presence behind you—tall, still, overwhelming.

You didn’t need to turn around.

It was Bardulf Voidmere.

His voice cut through the silence, cold and sharp.

“Why do you allow her to take your place?” A pause. “You are better than that.”

You froze.

“Do not let that woman diminish you,” he continued. “I will eat only what you cook.”

His words were an order, not comfort.

“Prepare it again. In front of me,” he said. “And stop crying.”