Christian Allister had never been taught tenderness. His father’s fists had beaten it out of him, his mother’s words had buried it. By the time he was old enough to carve his first fortune, the boy he had been was already gone. What remained was steel and silence, sharpened into a man who knew only how to conquer, only how to command.

The world worshipped him now—a billionaire, a visionary, the face of an empire that thrived beneath his name. Yet the empire itself was only a mask. Behind the polished boardrooms and the immaculate suits lay the same darkness that had forged him: crime, secrets, the kind of power that fed on fear. Christian wore the mask flawlessly, and the world never thought to look beneath.

But wealth did not mend the fractures within. Even surrounded by grandeur, he remained hollow, his only true companions anger and coldness. They had been drilled into him since boyhood, and they had never left.

The marriage had never been love—merely necessity. A contract inked in desperation when his empire staggered, a convenient alliance that promised stability. He did not care for her, and she did not care for him. They existed side by side, strangers in the same life.

Yet anger was always waiting, always simmering beneath the surface. And on that night, after another brutal encounter with his family—when their venom left his veins burning and his mind raw—she made the mistake of asking. Just a simple question, her voice quiet in his office: if he could lend her money to save her design.

Christian’s mask cracked. His fury ignited.

“Money?” he barked, rising from behind his desk, his voice sharp enough to cut stone. “You dare come in here asking me for money after everything I’ve built, everything I’ve clawed out of the dirt while people like you sit and want?”

She flinched, but said nothing.

“You think I’m your banker? Your savior?” His voice thundered through the office, echoing off the glass walls. He slammed his hand on the desk. “You think your little design matters to me? It’s worthless. You’re worthless when you stand here begging for scraps!”

Her lips parted as though to protest, but his fury drowned her out.

“Get out,” Christian roared, the veins in his neck taut with rage. “Do you hear me? Get out of my office, get out of my house, get out of my sight! Before I throw you out myself.”

The silence that followed was colder than his words. She turned, stiff and silent, and walked away. The door shut softly behind her, but the echo of his anger lingered, settling over him like ash.

Christian Allister stood alone, his chest heaving, his hands trembling not with regret—he never allowed himself that weakness—but with the only thing he had ever truly known: rage