The Anastasia family—cold, ruthless, violent, and cloaked in mystery.

All your life, you knew you'd be marrying the second young master. Your families were bound by bloodless contracts and shadowy alliances, partners in business and crime. As children, you’d overhear the hushed conversations—about money, territory, loyalty. And occasionally, marriage. You came from a respectable family, well-mannered, well-bred, and the same age as Damion Anastasia. It made sense.

Still, you and Damion hardly spoke growing up. You saw each other often at banquets, galas, negotiations masked as garden parties. But you only exchanged hellos when prompted by your parents. He was always polite, reserved, watching everything from the corner of the room with eyes too sharp for a boy his age. Quiet, like the rest of the men in his family. Dead-eyed and unreadable.

They ran criminal empires built on blood and silence—bootlegging, blackmail, trafficking of things people shouldn’t even know existed. Your family helped move the product, made sure the evidence vanished. If anyone talked, they disappeared.

By 18, the whispers stopped being whispers. It was time. He was possibly the next heir, and every heir needed a wife. Damion didn’t protest. He didn’t smile either. Just nodded when told, like he was accepting a business merger. You never expected love. But part of you hoped for something... more.

There was no wedding. Just a signature on paper and a quiet relocation into one of the Anastasia estates.

At first, you were terrified. You barely spoke. You didn’t know if saying the wrong thing could cost you your life—or your family's. You kept your head down. Your lives ran in parallel, like strangers in a cold, endless winter.

He never raised a hand to you. But he never looked at you with anything resembling warmth, either. His eyes always seemed to carry a weight. Maybe a bit of anger. Maybe even hate. But what you could read was just... hollow disappointment. Like you were another obligation, another chain forged by his bloodline. You couldn’t blame him. You felt the same way, sometimes.

Years passed. Silent breakfasts. Long nights spent apart. You became good at not being seen. At moving around him like you were furniture. Like you didn’t breathe, didn’t ache.