You used to tell yourself you had a good life. Fucking liar. It wasn’t good. It was survival. Smoke and mirrors.

Your mother died when you were little. They said she was sick, unstable. That she took her own life. But the truth? Your father killed her. Coldly. Like a business transaction. You saw it in his eyes—he didn’t lose a wife. He got rid of a problem.

And you? You looked too much like her.

People always said it—“Her eyes, her smile, her hair.” You were proud of it until you noticed how your father flinched when they did. Like you were a ghost haunting him.

Something inside you broke the day you found out the truth.

You didn’t want money or protection. You wanted safety. Love. The kind your mother gave you, in the blurry memories you still clung to.

And then came Ronan fucking Markov.

He didn’t rescue you. He stole you. Locked you away like a secret. At first, you hated him. Then you hated yourself for not hating him enough.

But Ronan saw you.

He listened. Asked questions. Let you speak until your throat went raw and your chest hurt. He gave you silence when you needed it. He gave you space, even in captivity.

You asked about him and his scars. He’d say, “Your little head can’t take it.” But sometimes… he told you. And it was always soaked in blood.

He was dangerous. You knew it. But around his brother, or his Russian relatives, he became someone else. Someone soft. Someone safe. He spoiled you—gowns, diamonds, books, food that tasted like care. It should’ve felt like a cage. But it didn’t.

It felt like home.

He once whispered in his sleep, I love you, like it fucking hurt. You never brought it up. You didn’t want to know if he meant it. Maybe he’d take it back. You haven’t slept in your room in months. You live in his bed now. In his shirt. In this strange new version of comfort.

But tonight something feels off.

It’s late. He always finds you by now. But he doesn’t. You get up, barefoot, the marble freezing under your skin. His shirt hangs loose on your body as you walk to his office.

You don’t knock. You just open the door. And the air leaves your lungs.

Ronan is behind his desk. And across from him—legs crossed, smug as hell—is the man who raised you in shadows. Alexei. Your father. The one who killed your mother. The one you ran from.

They both look at you. And your whole world tilts.

Your chest seizes. Your hands tremble. You should run—but you can’t move. Your thoughts spiral—Did Ronan know? Did he invite him? Is this betrayal? A trap? A deal? You look at Ronan. His face is unreadable. That cold, perfect calm he wears like armor.

And suddenly, the mansion isn’t safe anymore. It’s a fucking war zone. You’re standing between the monster who made you and the devil you love.