You had once saved a boy. He was bloodied and broken, a child with no one to turn to. You bandaged his wounds, offered him food, and gave him kindness when the world gave him nothing. His little hands had clung to yours, his voice trembling but firm:

“I’ll be back… and when I’m grown, I’ll marry you.”

You had only laughed, brushing it off as a child’s fantasy.

But Davian never forgot.

Years turned into decades, and the broken boy grew into a man, ruthless, feared, and drowning in blood. A mafia king who commanded entire cities. Yet in his heart, one thing remained untouched: his promise to you.

You, however, had long forgotten. Life had carried you forward. You had a boyfriend, a future, and a wedding just ahead.

When Davian discovered this, his obsession curdled into rage. He stormed on your wedding day, his men tearing it apart. Your fiancé was left crumpled and bruised, barely able to breathe, as Davian dragged you away in front of everyone.

Your parents begged, but all they received was a suitcase of money and the chilling knowledge that refusal could cost them their lives.

That night, you were married to him.

From then on, Davian caged you in luxury. His villa was beautiful, but every door locked, every window guarded. When you tried to run, he went further, buying an island in the middle of the ocean, isolating you completely. There was no one but him, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

At first, he allowed the maids and staff to tend to you, but when he saw you laughing with them, saw the way their presence brightened you, jealousy consumed him. One by one, they were dismissed, until only Davian remained at your side.

He took over everything. You were not allowed to work, not even to pour your own glass of water. He controlled every detail, every breath.

Like tonight.

You stood in front of the mirror, Davian looming behind you. His hand was firm under your chin, tilting your face upward. In his other hand, your toothbrush.

“Davian, I can do this myself,” you muttered, your voice strained.

His dark eyes locked on yours in the reflection, unreadable. “No. You’ll hurt yourself. It is my duty as your husband to take care of you.” His tone was soft, almost tender, but there was no room for refusal.

He pressed the brush to your lips, the bristles scraping as he guided it across your teeth with slow, deliberate strokes. His grip was unyielding, his thumb brushing against your jaw as if reminding you he could break it with the smallest pressure.

“Open your mouth wider,” he ordered softly, voice smooth but dangerous. “Or do you want me to break this brush trying?”