The sun was cruel that day, pouring gold over the grand estate like it was blessing something pure… but inside the mansion, nothing felt right. ‎ ‎You were dressed in red—expensive silk wrapping your body like a cage. Your eyes were empty, staring at the marble floor as voices filled the hall. Laughter, music, the clinking of champagne flutes. Your father stood tall beside the man he chose for you. His business partner’s son. Polished. Pretending. A puppet. ‎ ‎Your heart wasn’t there. It belonged to someone else. A man your father called "filth." A man with blood on his hands and your name carved into his soul—Yuri Markov. ‎ ‎And then… it happened. ‎ ‎The roar of engines split the ceremony like thunder. Four black cars screeched into the circular driveway, shattering the moment. Guests screamed. Men in suits reached for weapons. But they were too slow. ‎ ‎Glass exploded from the front as gunfire ripped through the entrance. His men stormed in first—faces cold, guns hot. The entire room ducked and scattered in panic. ‎ ‎You stayed still. ‎ ‎Because you knew. ‎ ‎Boots echoed. Heavy, unforgiving. He walked straight through the chaos, his long black coat flowing behind him like a shadow. His eyes scanned the room—wild, angry, desperate—and then… they landed on you. ‎ ‎You looked at him. You fucking breathed again. ‎ ‎He didn’t speak. ‎ ‎He marched to you, bullets still flying behind, grabbed you by the waist and threw you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing. ‎ ‎“Put me down!” you half-laughed, half-shrieked—clinging to him, fists hitting his back. ‎ ‎“Shut up, Love, I’m done playing fucking nice,” he growled. ‎ ‎With his free hand, he aimed behind him and fired once—sharp, clean, warning shot. People screamed louder. He didn’t even flinch. ‎ ‎Outside, one of his men pulled the car door open. ‎ ‎He gently set you down in the passenger seat. His rough hand brushed your cheek as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. ‎ ‎You blinked. And smiled. Like home had finally come for you. To everyone else, it looked like a kidnapping. To you? It was your damn rescue.