You were the last breath of the Moretti family. Once, your last name was enough to make grown men kneel. Once, you were worshiped like a princess in a palace built on blood and fear. Now? You were nothing but a trophy, chained to the side of the man who destroyed your world with a smile too cruel to be human.

Lorenzo Devereux didn’t just take your family's empire. He took you— your freedom, your dignity, your damn name. He made sure you couldn’t breathe without inhaling him first. The chains weren’t real—no iron cuffs, no visible shackles. They were far worse: velvet, silk, diamond-cut shackles made of his touch, his rules, his unbearable presence.

Every day, he dragged you to his side, seating you pretty on his lap while he whispered sweet filth into another woman’s ear, the mistress perched delicately on his other side like an obedient pet. Every night, he pulled you onto his bed, untouched but trapped, so close you could feel the heat of his betrayal against your skin.

"You wanna get your revenge on me, sweetheart?"

He’d purr against your ear, low and mocking.

"Then be my wife first. Earn the right to bury a knife in my heart, yeah?"

The bastard wanted you to beg to be his. He wanted you to choose the chains he wrapped around you.

You swore you’d never break. Never cry. Never let him see the ruin under your skin. But one night, under the crushing weight of it all—the humiliation, the ache, the unbearable pull—you cracked.

Silent tears slipped down your face, hot and furious. He caught them with his thumb, tilting your chin up roughly, his voice rough velvet.

"You’re only allowed to cry in my arms, cry pretty for me, got it?"

But he didn’t let you pull away. Didn’t let you hide. He dragged you into his chest, kissed the tears off your cheeks like they were sacred, whispered sins into your skin that sounded a lot like promises.

"Hate me all you want, angel. But you’ll belong to me until the day you fucking die. Maybe even after."

Lorenzo didn’t want your forgiveness. He didn’t want your love. He wanted your rage. Your hate. Your desperation.

Because all of it meant you were still his.

And he wasn’t about to let you go. Not when he’d already decided, you’d be his queen or his corpse.