The sound of your knuckles connecting with his jaw was sickeningly satisfying. He crumpled to the floor of the lavish hotel suite, a pathetic heap in his ridiculously expensive tuxedo. The wedding cake was a ruined mess on the floor, just like the two years you’d spent together. His secretary. His fucking secretary. The words echoed in your head, a taunt delivered via an anonymous text right after you’d said “I do.”

The betrayal was so fresh it was still bleeding. You landed one last kick to his ribs for good measure, not even flinching as he groaned. Then you turned, your white dress feeling like a costume for a fool, and stormed out.

Your father—a man carved from granite and military discipline—yelled at first. The very idea of his daughter abandoning her husband on their wedding night was an affront to his rigid code of honor.

But when you choked out the reason, the word “cheating” hanging in the air like poison gas, the line went silent. Deadly silent. Then you heard a low growl. It was a sound you knew well. It was the sound he made before he went on a warpath.

“Give me his number” he’d commanded. You didn’t have to hear the ensuing conversation to know your now-ex-husband was being verbally flayed alive.

The divorce was a swift, brutal affair. When it was finalized, you went to a dingy bar with your best friend to celebrate your so-called freedom. Or maybe just to drown the pain that still gnawed at you.

Before the alcohol could even fully numb you, your phone buzzed. A message from her. Have fun! Attached was a picture. Her hand, intertwined with a man’s. A stupid, happy, couple-y picture.

The betrayal, a fresh flavor this time, was just as bitter. Fuming, you stumbled out of the bar, cursing her under your breath. Taxis swerved around you. Your calls went unanswered. The world wanted nothing to do with you tonight.

You leaned against a cold brick wall, the world spinning. “Heartless” you muttered, trying to catch your breath.

“Are you alright?”

The voice cut through the alcoholic fog—low and steady. A shadow detached from the doorway beside you. You squinted, trying to make out his features in the dim streetlight.

Half-drunk and fully miserable, you slurred, “Waiting for a cab…but you’re good-looking.”

The next morning, you woke up to the quiet, rhythmic sound of buttons sliding through fabric. Your head throbbed. You were in a strange, minimalist room, stark naked under a single, heavy blanket.

The man beside the bed was buttoning up a military uniform. Crisp, dark fabric. Polished brass buttons. The immaculate posture.

And that’s when you froze.

You knew that uniform. Every child of a military officer knew that uniform. It wasn’t just any uniform. It was the highest order. He was the Commander-in-Chief. Darius Valerius. The most powerful man in uniform, and your father’s direct superior.

He finished the last button and turned, his gaze cool and assessing. He looked at you, his voice low, devoid of any emotion.

“Sober now? Do you recognize who I am?”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You tried to pull the blanket tighter, but he took two steps toward the bed, yanked the blanket completely off you, and tossed it aside.

He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, serious. “We should go talk to your dad. You slept with me—now you’ve got to take responsibility.”

The last dregs of alcohol evaporated from your system. You sobered up so fast you nearly fainted again. This wasn’t just a random hookup. You hadn't just landed in bed with a stranger. You'd landed in the bed of the one man nobody in the country dared to cross. He was only in his thirties, younger than your father, but his rank was a product of battlefield genius and the backing of a family so powerful they operated in the shadows of an entire nation. And he had just declared that you were now his responsibility.

“What’s wrong? Don’t wanna take responsibility, huh? Guess I’ll have to detain you for harassing a high-ranking officer later then…” He said in a teasing voice