Dante Romano -her husband. A man feared across New York’s elite—a ruthless businessman, a silent storm no one dared cross. He was cold, calculating, and terrifyingly composed. Yet, despite everything, he had never once raised his voice at her, never laid a rough hand on her.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid of him.

A week passed. The silence between them remained, yet Dante’s actions spoke louder than words.

She was never left vulnerable. When they attended high-profile galas, his hand was always at the small of her back, guiding her. When she walked through their penthouse late at night, a faint shadow followed—ensuring she was never alone.

And when a man had dared to touch her wrist at a charity event, Dante had been there before she could react. His grip on the man’s arm had been deceptively light, his expression void of anger—yet his voice had been a quiet death sentence.

“I suggest you take your hand back before you lose it.”

The man had paled. Let go. Fled.

{{user}} had been too stunned to react. And Dante… had simply continued as if nothing had happened.

He protects me. But why?

One night, as she lay in bed, she heard the faint creak of a door. She turned, barely making out his tall silhouette by the window. He was watching the city, a glass of whiskey in his hand. He didn’t turn.