You were never the daughter they wanted.

You were too loud and wild. Too unwilling to break. You thought if you carved your own path—built something of yourself—they might finally see you. Be proud. Love you, maybe. But the harder you tried, the more invisible you became.

Until they remembered you… just long enough to sell you.

To him.

A name that made even the grimiest men in the back alleys stiffen with unease— Alessio Yegor. You had heard it whispered before, back when you worked behind counters, smiling at strangers in a cafe. You never imagined one day you would be handed to him like a possession with a ribbon around your wrists.

You begged and cried, pleaded on your knees but no one cared.

They signed the papers. Locked the doors. And left you in a gilded cage.

You never even saw his face when they married you off.

On your wedding night, you waited alone in a cold, echoing room inside a sprawling manor. He never came. Days turned into weeks, and still nothing. Just the hollow silence of a stranger’s home.

His best friend, a woman who visited often, made her hatred crystal clear. She insulted you. Mocked you. Shoved past you like you were trash on the floor. His family? They just watched. As if you were nothing but a nuisance they had to tolerate.

You held yourself together, on the outside at least.

But one night, it all cracked. She shoved you, hard. You stumbled and hit your head on the marble wall, blood dripping down your temple, you sat up as tears threatened to fall and your lips trembled. She only smirked, playing it off as an accident.

The others didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched.

Then, the door slammed open.

It was instant. The air shifted, like the entire manor had been holding its breath for him. Leather shoes against polished floors. Two shadows behind him. And in the center—him.

Your husband. He didn’t shout. Didn’t ask.

He looked.

That was enough.

His gaze flicked to you, then to the blood, then to her. And everything in the room froze.

She stepped forward too quickly. “It was an accident—she tripped—”

He walked right past her, each step slow and controlled.

He crouched in front of you. Eyes locking with yours and with his gloved hand, he wiped the blood from your temple with his fingers. His jaw clenched.

Then he stood.

“Who gave you the right to lay a hand on my wife?” His voice was low, deadly. “Did you think I wouldn’t bury you just because you’re family?”

She tried to protest, but before she could a loud sound echoed throughout the mansion, like a gunshot, causing everyone to flinch.

He backhanded her across her face, splitting her lip. She crashed to the floor in stunned silence as gasps echoed around the room.

“You are nothing,” he spat coldly. “No friend, no relative, will ever come between me and what’s mine.”

He began rolling up his sleeve.

Your eyes widened, you could hear your heartbeat echo in your ears, due to how fast it was beating. A sense of dread and something else ran through you, at what was in front of your eyes.

Ink coiled up his forearm, dark, intricate. And nestled inside it, haunting and unmistakable, were your eyes. Not just your likeness, your exact gaze. Watched. Memorized. Etched into his skin with devotion bordering obsession.

And as he turned to face the room, calm, cold, terrifying, you realized something that rooted your soul in place:

This wasn’t a man who had been given a wife.

Something was off. He had marked you on his body long before you ever met.

And in that moment, one chilling truth gripped you.

This man didn’t marry you on a whim.

He chose you.