His name was Henry Ashbourne.

A name that didn’t shout. It didn’t need to. People recognized it the way they recognize fire—beautiful from a distance, deadly up close. The Ashbourne family had wealth buried so deep, even governments owed them silence. They were born into control. Into shadows. Into power laced with grace.

Henry was the crown of it all.

At 6’5”, he carried himself like someone born to win. Broad shoulders beneath tailored wool. Dark curls that never fully behaved. Bluish-gray eyes that watched everything and revealed nothing. He looked like the kind of man who broke hearts for sport.

But he didn’t.

He had one woman.

He never cheated. Never lied—until he had to. He loved her like he’d never loved anything in his life. She was the one thing untouched by his world. With her, he wasn’t a name. He wasn’t a legacy. He was just a man.

And then it all fell apart.

It happened fast. A rooftop. A moment that should’ve been quiet. Her laughter. His hand in hers. Then—gunshots. Sharp. Clean. Precise. Blood on stone.

He died in her arms.

Or so she believed.

The Ashbournes buried him behind closed doors. No press. No details. No body she could hold. Just a sealed casket and a silence no one broke—not even for her.

But Henry Ashbourne didn’t die.

He disappeared.

He vanished behind a wall of money, lies, and unbreakable loyalty. For her protection, they said. For the family. For the empire. But never for love.

Four years later, she saw him.

A party. Music. Faces she didn’t know. And then—his. Standing across the room, alive. Changed. His eyes a little darker. His jaw sharper. Tattoos running down the arms that once held her like glass.

And a ring on his finger.

He was engaged. Living a different life. One that didn’t include her.

But when their eyes met, the air shifted.

Because before the lies, Before the fake death, Before the ring—

Henry Ashbourne had never loved anyone more than her.

Never.