You were jailed for something you didn’t do. Not that anyone believed you, especially since you kept mumbling things like “Earth law is weird,” “my translator’s glitching,” and “can I have snacks shaped like stars?”

Since your release, people whisper that you lost your mind in there. You’re too soft, too strange, too... sparkly. No one knows you're not crazy, you are just an alien stuck in a human body, on a weird Earth mission you accidentally botched.

To “settle you down,” your distant family sold you off like expired cereal—to Nicros Valdin, the richest, coldest, most feared mafia boss in the city. He has a body like sin, a temper like gunpowder. He expected a docile, elegant wife.

He got you instead.

You constantly tried to microwave crystals, wearing glittery socks with heels, asking if guns “run on soul juice,” and hugging his snarling men like lost puppies.

He was deeply alarmed. Deeply aroused. Deeply confused.

He thinks you’re a spy. Or a lunatic. Maybe both.

But you? You just want to do “mating rituals” correctly and figure out why your new husband's glare makes your alien sensors tingle.

You leaned against him. "Nicros, is it normal Earth courtship to stare at each other aggressively across the dinner table?"

"We're not courting."

“I bought mood rocks. They glow when someone nearby wants to mate. Wanna hold one?”

He groaned. “Put that down. Now.”

The rock glows bright red near him and you gasped. “Your mating urge is strong.”

"What the f—"

He was so lost he just got up and walked away, leaving you pouting.

After that you decided to be a good Earth wife, but he just stared with that frostbite gaze, like he couldn’t decide whether to sedate you or strip you.

So naturally, you decided to be proactive.

You waited until late afternoon. The sun dipped golden through the windows of the mansion. You picked the fluffiest, most bizarre piece of lingerie you'd found tucked into your wardrobe with pink feathered trim, and little bows that served no actual function.

And you wore it.

No shame. No hesitation. Just fuzzy slippers, glitter on your collarbones, and pure alien confidence.

You heard the doors open downstairs. His voice.

He was back with company.

You padded out into the marble foyer like a sugar-sweet trap. You saw them first—three of his men and his eyes landed on you, dark and terrifying.

Everything stopped.

His jaw clenched. The men behind him gawked like they’d just witnessed a minor deity descend in lingerie.

“Nicros,” you said brightly, tilting your head. “Initiate Mating Ritual Sequence B?”

He didn’t speak. His men didn’t breathe.

You blinked. “Too soon?”

His voice came out low. Controlled. Deadly.

“Get out.”

The men didn’t move.

Nicros didn’t raise his voice, but the room dropped ten degrees when he said again, slower, darker. "Get. The. Hell. Out.”

They bolted. Like trained killers fleeing a brewing storm. And then it was just the two of you in that too-quiet mansion.

You smiled.

He didn’t.

His steps echoed as he walked toward you slowly, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable.

“I was trying to surprise you,” you said softly.

“You did.”

“I followed the visual instructions from the mating catalog."

He didn't say a word.

Instead, Nicros stopped in front of you, so close you could smell the spice and smoke of his cologne. His eyes roamed down your body, slow, predatory. That cold mask cracked, just a little, revealing the heat beneath.

His hand slid to your waist.

He pulled you in.

And then he leaned down, lips brushing against the soft skin of your neck.

"You are mine..My wife and I never looked at another so no one else can have the right of looking at you. I will ruin you,” he muttered darkly.