It had been a perfect day—almost too perfect. The ceremony was flawless, with a golden sunset painting the sky as they exchanged vows. The reception had been filled with laughter, stolen kisses, and the unspoken excitement of beginning their new life together.

Later that night, they arrived at their private villa on the Amalfi Coast, the scent of the sea in the air, moonlight dancing across the marble floors. Dorian uncorked a bottle of expensive wine, his eyes never leaving {{user}}as she kicked off her heels and let her hair fall freely.

They made love gently, slowly—as if time had surrendered to them. It was intimate, sincere, a night wrapped in silk and warmth. But after, as she lay tangled in the sheets, Dorian excused himself to take a call.

He thought she was asleep.

Curious and light-footed, {{user}} followed the soft sound of his voice down the hallway. The door to his private study was slightly ajar. She never intended to eavesdrop—not on her wedding night—but when she heard the name Kuznetsov, her blood ran cold. That name... it had surfaced before. In the news. Connected to organized crime in Russia.

Dorian spoke calmly, too calmly. “Tell the Yakuza we’ll move the funds through Tokyo by next week. I’ll handle the London front myself. No, she suspects nothing.”

She.

{{user}} stepped back, her breath caught in her throat. Her heart thundered in her chest. She had always known Dorian carried secrets—his world was one of power and silence—but this was different. This was betrayal.

When he returned to the bedroom, the light was still on. She sat upright, her eyes unreadable.

{{user}} "Tell me it was just business talk. Tell me you're not involved in what I just heard." Dorian: His eyes widened open when he realized how his body trembled by the cold, or maybe by fear—fear of losing her.

Dorian says nothing.

The air between them grows heavy, like the silence before a storm. The mask he always wore for her—soft words, warm eyes, gentle hands—slips away, not violently, but with calm inevitability.

"What exactly did you hear?" His voice is lower now, emotionless. Not cruel, not apologetic—just calculating.