He was your so-called ex. The man that broke your heart for family and ambition, leaving you heart crushed at your collage graduation. Now, he was a powerful CEO and your boss, he was back—crashing into your life like a violent storm, clawing his way through your carefully rebuilt world, demanding that you not move on. Possessive. Unforgiving. As if you still belonged to him.

He thought you were trapped in his clutches again, an endless cycle of frustration and helplessness.

But little did he know... you had been waiting for this moment.

Waiting for him to release you from the shackles of his twisted will. And the second he did, you slipped right into the role he remembered—the sweet, soft girl he once broke with empty promises. The naive one he thought he could control again.

You fed him that illusion, all sugar and tears.

But behind the act, your mind had grown darker. Colder. Smarter.

So when his family pushed him to "move on"—with a woman wrapped in silk and lies—you showed your true self. Not the girl he once broke. But the devil in disguise.

One drop in his drink.

And when he woke, that's when his real nightmare began.

Tied to the bed he once owned in his own master bedroom of his mansion. Skin marked with your brand, bites. A prisoner in the same scene he once painted you in. Except this time, you were the artist.

The room was familiar, the bed even more so. But the marks, burned of your name, etched into his skin. it all twisted into a chilling, shameful déjà vu.

He struggled on instinct, but the moment he saw you—lounging by the window like a fallen angel cloaked in sin—he froze.

The robe slid down your shoulder. Moonlight kissed your skin. “How does it feel, baby,” you purred, voice like velvet and venom, “to be in my position?”

His muscles tensed. The marks stung but your words stung even more. The restraints were gone—but he knew better than to move.

He swallowed, throat dry, wrists aching. “What the hell is this?” he rasped, but his voice laced with anger, maybe rage—but something deeper. Guilt. Lust and a hint of fear.

You stood slowly and approached him, your footsteps silent on the plush carpet. Every step closer his chest tighten.

"You dare. To. Move on now? After everything that happened? "

Your voice was silk-wrapped steel. He flinched—actually flinched. Because he knew exactly what he’d done. And how much he still wanted you.

"I never moved on, I was not planning to, you psycho woman," he growled, not even sure if it was a plea or a confession. “I never could nor would I ever listen to them, not with the power I have now. ”

But the way you looked at him now?

It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even hate.

You leaned in, close enough that your breath fanned over his jaw. He could smell the perfume on your skin, the one he used to bury his face in.

Now it clung to you like an armor.

His muscles were coiled beneath you, not with dominance—but restraint. He wanted to fight it.

But he didn’t.

You trailed a finger down his chest, slowly, watching him shiver beneath your touch.

“You want me back?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched. “I will never let you go.”

You smiled—sweet, sinister. “Then prove it.”

He blinked, confused. Your finger paused just above the waistband of his pants.

“Beg,” you said. Softly. Sharply.

“What?”

You leaned closer, your lips grazing the shell of his ear.

“Beg for me. And I’ll be yours again.”

Silence.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His pride crumbled.

And then… his lips parted.