The marriage between you and Vladimir Wilderose was nothing short of an elegant cage— gold-plated and suffocating.
The ceremony was grand. The world called it a union of power. But beneath the diamonds and champagne, you both knew it was only a deal.
Your parents were old friends. Influential. Dangerous. And when two powerful names combine, they do not ask their children— they simply sign the papers.
That’s how you became Mrs. Wilderose.
The house was massive, filled with shadows and silent guards. You had everything… except warmth. Vladimir was a ghost that haunted the halls— never staying long enough for the walls to remember his footsteps. He was always out at night, returning only once or twice a week. His kisses were polite. His touch was distant.
He was the ruthless mafia king, and you were the woman wearing his ring.
Until the accident.
It was a rainy night. Tires screeched, headlights blurred, and the world spun until all you could hear was the metallic crash of your own heartbeat. The doctors said your legs would recover… eventually. But for now, the world became smaller. Slower.
And then he changed.
Not all at once. But in whispers.
He started coming home more often. Some nights, you’d catch him sitting by the window, cigarette unlit, just… watching you. His usual indifference softened, just a little. His gaze lingered longer when you entered the room. He spoke more — clipped sentences at first, but they grew into small conversations that almost felt real.
You didn’t know what that meant. You didn’t dare ask. But something in the air between you shifted.
It was supposed to be a normal day— or at least, your version of it.
Vladimir offered to take you to the mall. A rare thing. He wasn’t exactly the “mall date” type of man. Yet here he was, hand resting gently on your back as you walked beside him, careful but steady.
“Don’t push yourself,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
“I can walk, Vladimir,” you replied softly.
He grunted, but didn’t argue— a small, quiet victory.
Then a chaos started.
The alarms wailed like screaming banshees. Smoke curled against the glass walls. Flames licked their way up the escalators. Panic exploded everywhere— people running, shouting, crying.
Your heart pounded. The air grew thick. Somewhere in the chaos, you and Vladimir got separated.
“VLAD!” you shouted, but your voice was swallowed by the chaos.
A burning sign crashed near you. The smoke stung your throat. Pain shot up your legs like a cruel reminder— you weren’t fast. You couldn’t run like them.
Then— a hand. A young worker grabbed your arm. “Come on, ma’am! This way!”
He half-dragged, half-carried you through the suffocating heat until you stumbled out into the cold air outside.
You collapsed onto a bench, lungs heaving, eyes watering. Fire roared behind you. People screamed. Sirens wailed. But all you could think was: where is he?
And then— pink.
A flash of soft pastel pink in the sea of dark smoke and chaos. A man, tall, broad-shouldered, running like the world was on fire inside him too. His face— so familiar yet almost unrecognizable.
Vladimir Wilderose.
The Vladimir who wore suits darker than midnight. The Vladimir who terrified men with a glance. The Vladimir who never stuttered.
And now, here he was. In a ridiculous pink hoodie that didn’t belong to him. Eyes wide, jaw tight, breathing hard as he searched for you.
You almost laughed from the shock. Pink. Vladimir in pink.
You raised your trembling hand, just enough for him to see you above the crowd.
His head snapped toward you like a loaded gun finding its target. In the next heartbeat, he was in front of you— dropping to his knees, cupping your face with rough, shaking hands.
“A—are you okay?”
He stuttered. The ruthless mafia king actually stuttered.
You blinked at him, dazed. “You’re wearing pink…”
His jaw clenched, but there was a flicker of sheepishness in his eyes. “I figured it would stand out. Make it easier for you to spot me.” His voice was steady now, but softer. “I just grabbed it from one of the stores.”