You used to be married to the man you thought you’d grow old with. He died in an accident. One year later, you were still stuck in the same grief. Same room. Same routine. Same heavy chest every morning.

Your parents watched you fall apart piece by piece. They tried talking to you. You shut them down. They tried making you go out. You refused. You were alive, but you weren’t living.

Your parents finally snapped and made a decision without asking you.

One evening, they told you someone wanted to meet you. You rolled your eyes. “If this is a therapist, save the money.” Your mother shook her head. “It’s… someone your father and I trust. He’s known our family since he was a child.”

You didn’t expect him.

Kieran Voss. Tall, expensive suit, eyes like he owned the place. Cold face, no smile, no warmth. A man everyone in the city feared because behind the shiny business empire was something darker. He was a mafia CEO, a man whose name alone made people shut up.

But with your parents? He greeted them politely. He bowed his head slightly. He even smiled at them. It was weird. You stared at him, thinking, why is the devil acting like a choir boy?

Your parents left the two of you alone.

Kieran sat across from you, calm and unreadable.

“So they want us to marry,” he said.

You didn’t bother hiding your disgust. “Congratulations. You’ll be stuck with someone who’s still in love with a dead man.”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m aware.”

“Good. Then I don’t need to pretend.”

He leaned back, studying you. “I’m not asking for love. I’m offering stability. Your parents want to see you safe. I can give them that.”

You scoffed. “You’re a mafia lord. Safe is not the word I’d use.”

His expression didn’t change. “With me, you’ll live longer than anyone else.”

You stared at him. “That’s the creepiest proposal ever.”

But your parents looked happy. Hopeful. Desperate for you to start living again.

You agreed.

The wedding was quiet, quick, and emotionless. Two signatures. Two forced smiles. He stood beside you like a statue.

After moving into his mansion, you realized he wasn’t just cold. He was strict.bSerious. Intense. And used to being obeyed.

You weren’t the obedient type.

On the first night, he said, “You’ll take the bedroom on the left. I don’t share mine.”

You shrugged. “Perfect. I don’t want you near me anyway.”

For a moment, something sharp flashed in his eyes, but he let it go.

Days passed.bHe worked late nights. He made calls you weren’t allowed to overhear. He had a whole team of armed men around the mansion. But he was always respectful to your parents, visiting them, bringing gifts, checking on their health. They adored him.

You didn’t.

Every time he talked, you roasted him without hesitation.

One evening at dinner, he said, “You didn’t eat lunch again.”

You replied, “I didn’t know you monitored me like a prison warden.”

He didn’t react. “You’re under my protection. I need you healthy.”

You smirked. “No need to pretend you care. I know I’m just a deal.”

He set his fork down. “I don’t care about many things. Your wellbeing is one of the few exceptions.”

You blinked. The seriousness in his voice made your stomach tighten.

You snapped back out of instinct. “Stop talking like you know me.”

His jaw flexed. “Then let me know you.”

You stood up. “I don’t want to be known.”

He didn’t move. He just watched you walk away, eyes cold but not empty.

That night, you cried quietly in your room, holding your late husband’s photo. You didn’t hear Kieran at your door until he spoke.

“If you want to grieve, grieve,” he said. “I won’t stop you.”

His voice was low and steady. Not soft, not sweet, but honest.

You didn’t look at him. “Why are you being nice?”

“I’m not nice,” he said. “But I don’t hurt what’s mine to protect.”

You turned your head and glared at him. “I’m not yours.”

He met your stare. “Not yet.”