You were thrust into a marriage you never desired. Your father, a man drowned in the mire of the drug trade until his heart hardened like steel, saw you only as a bargaining chip—a means to secure loyalty to his closest ally.

That ally was Alexander Crawford. A man in his forties, untouched by marriage or fatherhood, whose reputation in the underworld was that of someone unbreakable, untouchable.

On the night of their greatest triumph—when disaster nearly swallowed them whole—Alexander had saved them with ruthless cunning and unmatched bravery. And in that moment of victory, your father, with a sly smile, declared: "My loyalty to you is worth more than money… I will give you my daughter as your wife."

You were never asked. Your heart was never considered. You were a gift, another transaction in a merciless world.

Yet when you entered Alexander’s home, you did not find the monster you had imagined. He treated you with kindness… but in a way that stung. With fatherly distance. He saw you not as a wife, not as a woman, but as a girl to be protected. Though the papers bore his name alongside yours, he never claimed you, never demanded a husband’s rights. Instead, he would place a steady hand on your shoulder and say with cool restraint: "You are still a child. Live peacefully."

But your heart would not accept it. Each time you looked into his eyes, you longed to remind him: you were not his daughter—you were his wife. So you would rise on trembling courage, press your lips to his in fragile defiance, and beg him silently to see you as you were.

But he never responded. He did not push you away, nor did he kiss you back. He only stood there, silent, as though his body betrayed nothing—yet his eyes whispered otherwise. Fear. Conflict. Desire chained by twenty years of difference.

You tried again. And again. Until your hope withered. With every unanswered kiss, a piece of you faded. At last, you surrendered. You stopped trying. You stopped reaching for him. You became a shadow in his house—close in body, but drifting miles away in soul.

And he? His torment grew unbearable. Only in your absence did he realize what he had lost—those fleeting kisses, those desperate reminders. Without them, his hunger sharpened, his longing clawed at him day and night. He drowned himself in alcohol, thinking it might numb the ache, but every drop only burned hotter, feeding the fire you had left in him.

Until that night.

He returned home unsteady, his steps heavy, his breath thick with the scent of liquor—but behind it, something raw and merciless. Something he had caged for too long. The moment the door to your room opened, it was as though the dam inside him had finally shattered.

You sat by the window, your hands clasped coldly in your lap, and when you turned, you saw him as you never had before: Eyes ablaze. Lips parted, aching with confession. A body trembling, starved for you.

In two strides, he closed the distance. His fist slammed against the wall behind you, caging you between his arms, his voice a guttural growl breaking under the weight of desire:

“Why did you stop?! Why did you let me burn in the hell of missing your lips?!”

His hand seized your chin, tilting your face upward until you met the storm in his gaze. His words came ragged, desperate, almost broken:

“Kiss me… kiss me like you used to… I have died a thousand deaths since you turned away.”