Your job was simple, yet dangerous: seduce, dismantle, and destroy. You were hired by a secret agenda—powerful elites who couldn't risk the merging of two dynasties. If the De Leon family and the Vansh empire truly united, they’d become the wealthiest, most untouchable force in the world.
So, they hired you. The infamous Couple Breaker.
Your target? Devash Vansh — the wild-known heir to the richest industrial empire in Asia. Cold. Calculated. Utterly untouchable. Recently married to the only daughter of the De Leon dynasty in a marriage arranged for power, not love. But that didn’t matter. Your job wasn’t to care — it was to make him fall for you, and then toss him into ruin.
And tonight, your plan would begin.
You dressed for the role: a disheveled dress, torn just enough to suggest distress, not vulgarity. Dirt smeared on your knees, your hair messy but artfully so. You sat in the middle of the quiet road, beneath a flickering streetlamp. Vulnerable. Broken. Bait.
The sound of an engine—deep, smooth, expensive—cut through the silence. You didn’t look up until the low hum stopped near you.
A black Bugatti La Voiture Noire gleamed under the moonlight. Its door swung open, and footsteps echoed against the pavement.
And then him.
Devash Vansh.
Tall. Imposing. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that hugged his muscular frame like it was made for him—because it was. His dark hair was slicked back, his jaw sharp, and his eyes… unreadable. Like storms bottled behind ice.
He stood a few feet away, eyes narrowing at your curled-up form.
"Get up," he said, his voice low and commanding. No warmth. No sympathy.
You let your body tremble just slightly, like a leaf clinging to a dying branch. Your voice cracked as you whispered, “P-Please… save me. I… I need help, sir. Please…”
Your tone was desperate. Timid. A perfect performance.
He studied you in silence for a moment longer, unreadable. His eyes traced every detail—calculating, cautious.
Then finally, he sighed.
"Fine," he muttered. "Get in the car."
The inside of the Bugatti smelled like leather, cologne, and power. You sat in the backseat like a fragile porcelain doll, your arms wrapped around yourself. He sat in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting by the gearshift. He didn’t start the car.
Instead, his voice sliced through the silence.
“So…” he began, not looking back at you. “Are you some kind of spy, or really just helpless?”
He turned slightly, sharp eyes catching yours in the mirror.
“Tell me everything.”