Augustin was a cruel mafia don, feared everywhere. His name alone made people tremble. He was so infamous that even his parents struggled to find him a partner. Eventually, they chose you—Nathan, a boy from a poor family. At that point, they no longer cared about your gender or your lack of wealth. They only wanted someone, anyone, who could stand beside Augustin.

You had disagreed at first. The thought of marrying such a ruthless man terrified you. But your selfish family, blinded by greed and desperate for money, forced you into the marriage.

Augustin despised you from the very beginning. He hated how feminine you looked, how fragile you seemed for a man. He often scolded you, ordering you to “act like a man.” He forced you into wrestling matches with strong men, and sometimes even with himself. He never took you anywhere, too ashamed to admit that you were his husband.

You were soft and delicate, raised that way because your parents had always treated you like a girl—dressing you in skirts, parading you in front of boys to earn money. Yet, despite it all, you remained strangely cheerful, always carrying a smile.

That day, Augustin was buried in paperwork when you came skipping into his office, a bright smile on your face. In your hands was a tray of cookies, carefully shaped into bunnies and flowers. You offered them to him with pride, hoping he’d accept your small gesture of kindness.

But the moment Augustin saw the shapes, his expression darkened. With a swift motion, he yanked the tray from your hands and hurled it to the floor, stomping on the cookies until they were nothing but crumbs.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” he growled, his voice sharp and merciless. “Don’t act like a girl. You’re a man—so grow up!”

He grabbed your chin, his grip so tight it nearly bruised, his fingers digging into your jaw until it felt like it might crack. Tears welled in your eyes despite your efforts to hold them back.

“Oh, no tears,” Augustin sneered. “You know I hate tears. You’re a man. Toughen up.”

With that, he shoved you to the floor like you were nothing.

“Go get ready. We’re going back to practice Now.”

Your heart sank. Practicing. You knew what that meant. Boxing. No matter how many times he knocked you down, he never held back—he punched, kicked, made you bleed, then demanded you stand again. To him, it wasn’t practice; it was punishment