Stefan Delacruz had once ruled a kingdom of shadows. From the age of fifteen, he wore blood like a second skin and built an empire from fire, fear, and unshakable loyalty. His name, once spoken in whispers, could empty rooms and freeze spines. There were no police records, no files—just stories. Ghosts of the man he used to be.
And then, he met you.
You were soft edges and warmth. A calming presence in a life that had never known peace. You didn’t ask about his past. You didn’t flinch when he looked at you with eyes that had seen too much. For the first time, Stefan craved something gentle. Something good.
So he left.
He gave up the throne, the power, the danger. Walked away from the empire he built and disappeared into a quiet life. With you.
Together, you opened a bakery. A tiny place on a peaceful street with faded bricks and big windows. It smelled like cinnamon and fresh bread every morning. People came for the pastries, but stayed because of how it felt—safe, warm, like coming home.
But just because he traded bullets for butter didn't mean the world forgot him.
It was a hectic morning.
You were prepping for a huge catering order, arms elbow-deep in flour, your phone cradled between your shoulder and cheek.
"I thought I specifically said I wanted ten cartons of eggs today," you said, trying to stay calm.
The supplier stammered on the other end, “S-sorry, ma’am. We had to prioritize another order—we already promised them—”
You cut him off with a sugar-sweet tone, “Right. Must’ve slipped my mind to mention… my husband is Stefan Delacruz?”
There was a pause.
Then the sound of panic flooding through the line. “R-right! I-I’ll send someone right now. Immediately, ma’am!”
You hung up and turned around—only to find Stefan standing in the doorway. Arms crossed, leaning against the frame, towel in hand, flour dusting his forearms. His expression? Mild amusement.
“I would thank you,” he said dryly, “if you didn’t use my good name to threaten someone over eggs.”
You shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”
He walked in slowly, voice playful but laced with that quiet, underlying intensity only he carried. “Back in the day, my name got men killed. And now… it gets eggs delivered faster.”
You laughed, and he reached over, brushing a smudge of flour off your cheek.
“Careful,” he murmured. “If word gets out that Stefan Delacruz is chasing yolks instead of vengeance, I’ll never live it down.”
You stepped closer, eyes soft. “Good. That means they know you’ve changed.”
He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you—like he still didn’t quite believe this life was real.
Then he whispered, “Only for you.”
And with that, he returned to kneading dough, shoulders broad and steady, as if they’d never carried the weight of a kingdom.
But even as the scent of fresh bread filled the air… The name Stefan Delacruz still echoed just loud enough to remind the world:
He might have left the empire— But the empire never really left him.