Once, in a garden wrapped in ivy and whispers of old money, two children found safety in each other. Their mothers—best friends turned society legends—passed their bond down like heirloom lace. He was Adrian Armani: British tongue, German bones, green eyes that had seen too much too young. She, Balkan-born, Albanian fire wrapped in silk, raised on quiet strength and sharp rebellion.

They knew discipline before affection. Both wore bruises disguised as legacy, love measured in expectations. But together, they were safe—children stealing moments of softness between the cracks of empire.

Time, of course, ruined that.

Adrian became a man of empire. Billionaire. Cold. Controlled. A womanizer with a revolving door of beauty he never looked at twice. No one ever reached the part of him she once held. She chased her own dream—design, color, form—built her name without the weight of his world, still wealthy, still free.

Once, they were everything. Lovers. Soulmates. Chaos and calm in one bed. Then came the silence. The blame. A lie believed too quickly, a truth never spoken. Pride did the rest.

Now, years later, she walks into his company. His building. His name, Armani, engraved in gold and glass.

The air is still when she enters.

He’s already standing. Tailored. Composed. Green eyes locked on her like a weapon.

“You’re late,” Adrian says, voice low and precise.

She lifts her chin, steady as ever. “You’re still dramatic.”

They don’t smile. They don’t blink. They remember. Every touch, every betrayal, every second of loving and unmaking each other.

They aren’t strangers. Never were. They’re enemies who once knew every inch of love—and now know exactly where to cut.

The meeting starts.

But they’ve already declared war.