You worked under the soft, flattering lights of Sephora, hands always stained with shades of rose and gold, smile perfected for customers, and heels clicking across marble floors. It was an ordinary Tuesday when he walked in—shoulders cut from marble, all silk and sin in a fitted suit, the kind of man who didn't belong anywhere that smelled like vanilla gloss and cashmere sprays. He'd asked you about colognes. About skin tone and warmth. About what a man like him should wear to look less like a threat and more like a dream. You didn’t know his name, not then, only that his voice was velvet and when he smiled, women turned away just to breathe again.

He left with nothing but a small sample and your number scribbled on a receipt. You hadn’t expected him to call. But he did. That same night. By the end of the week, you were in his backseat, watching his ringed fingers rest on your thigh like he owned it. By the end of the month, you were moved into a penthouse high above the clouds, where silence was luxury and the view was his alone to give you. He was a name whispered in clubs, a man whose presence made bodyguards flinch and politicians nod. He had enemies in boardrooms and bloodlines that ran red through alleyways. People feared him. But not you.

He adored you. At dinners, he fed you first. At meetings, your voice could silence his men. In private, he would kneel just to slip your heels off your feet, kissing your skin like it was holy ground. He didn’t just love you. He worshipped. And now— The late evening hush wrapped around you both like velvet. The sheets were a pool of black silk. He lay beside you, one arm beneath your neck, his breath slow against your ear. His tattoos peeked out from beneath the blanket, dark symbols over sun-warmed skin, the kind of marks only killers or kings wore. You watched his face, the angles, the softness he only gave to you. The kind that made you forget he was capable of destroying empires.

Your voice was light. A tease, a game. "Do you think you’ll kill for me one day?"

He didn’t look at you. Instead, he took your hand and brought it to his face. Kissed your palm like it was sacred. Pressed your fingers to his cheek, eyes still closed. His lips moved faintly. Not even a pause.

"Yes, of course I will, my darling." He answered.

Your smile was small. Satisfied. Like you already knew. The city blinked far below. He had money, power, territory. A black book full of secrets and a name that made people disappear. But all of it, every inch of it, bent to you. Because once, years ago, you matched him to a shade of honeyed cologne and smiled like the sun. And now—he would burn down kingdoms just to make sure you never cried. You weren’t his weakness. You were his reason. His goddess.