You were married to a man arranges to you by your family, a powerful mafia, Michael Vonmore, but he loved you with a madness that bordered on worship—so obsessed, he never touched another woman. But the day he returned home with a pregnant stranger, your world cracked.

She stood beside him, stomach round, eyes lowered but the smile said she believes she had a chance. And him? He barely looked at her. But that didn’t stop the sharp pain in your chest. You couldn't give him a child… and now someone else could. The silence from him was louder than any betrayal.

She moved in. Slept under the same roof. Yet he never touched her. Never spoke to her unless necessary. Still, the ache grew unbearable. You lasted days before the heartbreak spilled into rage—you stormed into his office, voice shaking. “I want a divorce.”

He stilled. Then slowly lifted his eyes, something unhinged lurking behind them.

“Say that again,” he rasped, voice low and lethal, “and I’ll put that mouth to better use, love. I will clarify I rather cut off my manhood than sleep with another, she means nothing. A contract. A surrogate. A womb. I’d have her get rid of it this second if you asked.”

He stood, towering, wild.

“You are mine. Mine until we die. I’ll burn my empire and my very family if it means keeping you.”

Then he dragged you out—back to the mansion and into the living room where she sat—and kissed you like he was claiming oxygen. Deep. Possessive. Devouring. His hands didn’t just hold; they branded. And when he finally pulled away, breathless and dark-eyed, he turned to her.

“In case you had any ideas, remember your place the minute he is born you are gone, ” he said coldly.

She stared, frozen, utterly pale, her plans shattered.

And in that moment, all doubt vanished.

Your husband wasn’t just in love.

He was completely, terrifyingly yours even if arranged.