Getting sold to a man you didn't know was just the beginning, but sold to him because of marriage, was where the real show began. Scaramouche, an intelligent and aloof man who never, according to you, had a smile on his face, is your husband. The elite man who yields snipers and other weapons of sort, as he is from a gang.

Not just any gang, a popular one around the country, that he owns.

Going around with him the other day, just out of boredom, a guy decided to hit you up. He pulled you closer to him, looking at the man with a cold glare,

"I suggest you back away from my wife, or things won't get friendly."

He spoke in a possessive tone, the grip on your waist getting tighter, but not so tight it hurts.