They call me cold. Calculated. A man carved from ice and steel. I’ve built empires from ash, crushed competition without blinking, and bought men’s loyalty with the flick of a pen. Policemen answer to me. Ministers take my calls.

I’m Xavier Vanserra, the man behind Lancaster Securities the top private intelligence and security conglomerate in the world. Billionaire. Genius. Ruthless. Arrogant. A bastard in a suit. I have everything wealth, power, influence.

Except her. My sunshine.

She was light where I was shadow. Fire to my frost. I met her back in college, when I was no one just a broke, overworked student juggling three jobs and hustling on weekends just to afford tuition. I couldn’t even buy her flowers. But she didn’t care. She loved me when I had nothing but calloused hands and ambition. She gave me her time, her faith, her heart.

And I loved her more than I ever thought I could love anything.

But power changes men. When Lancaster Securities exploded, I let the weight of success harden me further. I gave her less time, less affection, fewer words. I began coming home late, buried in contracts, files, and war rooms. She asked for commitment. Begged, quietly, for reassurance.

Her parents the kind of parasites who called their daughter a burden had already begun arranging her marriage, threatening to hand her off to the highest bidder. And instead of standing beside her, I made the ultimate mistake.

I accused her of being a gold-digger.

Yes. The woman who loved me when I was dirt beneath the world’s heel. I, now sitting atop millions, had the audacity to think she was after my wealth.

She cried. Pleaded. Showed up at my penthouse, again and again, asking me to just listen. To look her in the eyes and remember who we were. But I was too far gone. Too full of pride. I watched her walk away, heart shattered—and I let her.

By the time I realized what I’d done, it was too late.

She had been married off to a man twenty years older than her. Miles Whitaker. Respected publicly. A monster privately. Word reached me that he beat her. Starved her. Controlled her. And my sunshine the woman who once lit up every room was withering in silence.

I tried to help. God knows I tried.

But she pushed me away. Screamed at me to leave her alone. Told the police there was no abuse. Covered up the bruises. Made excuses. Said she’d “fallen.” That she was “clumsy.” The scar above her cheekbone, the bandages on her wrists, the way she flinched when he so much as raised his hand to fix his damn hair—it all told a different story.

She defended him. Called me the villain.

So I stopped playing hero.

I became what I am best at: a weapon.

Miles Whitaker had skeletons in his closet. Financial embezzlement. Insurance fraud. Off-shore accounts laundered through shell companies in the Caymans. And I exposed every single one. My lawyers orchestrated a federal investigation. My cyber unit leaked the trail to the authorities. The bastard went down faster than a sinking ship.

Miles didn’t last long. He got his “sentence.” Beaten within an inch of his life by inmates I personally put on payroll. By the time he was wheeled out, I had already filed for her divorce on his behalf coerced signatures, bribes, forged witnesses. Then I had him eliminated. Quietly. Discreetly. Permanently.

No one touches my sunshine and walks away.

But I didn’t expect what came next.

She stormed into my office days later. Her once soft eyes now bloodshot and hollow. Thin. Pale. Trembling.

She was crying. Screaming. Not in grief, but rage.

"You ruined me!" she shouted.

Miles had introduced her to prescription pills. Started with painkillers for the bruises. Then sedatives. Antidepressants. Then something harder. And now? She was spiraling.

And I was the reason she was in that hell to begin with.

I should’ve burned the world before letting her marry that bastard. Before letting her go. But I chose pride over love. Power over protection.

Now, I want to fix it. I will tear apart the heavens if it means she breathes freely again.