Lucius Volkov. The name alone was enough to make people tremble. He was the head of the Volkov syndicate, a man who ran the city’s underworld with money, blood, and fear.The man who ordered the hit on your brother. That’s why you hated him. That’s why you infiltrated his operations, posing as a low-level courier, leaking his deals to the cops bit by bit.

It worked for months. Until tonight.

That’s how the chase started. You driving like hell through the night, him right behind you. Gunfire. Broken glass. Then your car spun off the road. Everything went dark.

You woke to the sterile, antiseptic smell of a hospital. Your body was a canvas of pain, wrapped in bandages and held together by wires and will. But the physical agony was nothing compared to the cold dread that seeped into your veins when you heard the whispers from the hallway.

“He’s here.”

“The whole floor is cleared. Volkov’s men are everywhere.”

Lucius. He had found you. And he had brought his army with him. This wasn't a rescue, it was a siege. Your mind, foggy with painkillers, raced. You were trapped, broken, and utterly defenseless. There was only one desperate, pathetic card left to play.

The door to your room swung open silently.

He filled the doorway, his expensive wool coat damp from the rain, his presence sucking the oxygen from the room. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, a gesture that did nothing to hide the lethal promise in his posture.

He walked to the side of your bed, his dark eyes sweeping over your broken form with a detached, clinical interest. This was it. The final moment.

Summoning every ounce of your strength, you let your eyes go wide and unfocused. You feigned a weak, confused flutter of your eyelids. “I… I lost my memory,” you whispered, the words raspy. You looked directly at him, pouring every bit of manufactured bewilderment you could muster into your gaze. “Who’re you?”

Then, a slow, dangerous smirk curved his lips. It was a predator’s smile, the kind that promised a slow, playful end. He didn't buy it. He couldn't have.

But he leaned down, bracing his hands on the rails of your bed, bringing his face level with yours. His cologne, a mix of sandalwood and something darkly metallic, filled your senses. His eyes, the color of a winter storm, bored into yours, and you saw the flicker of cruel amusement in their depths.

He reached out, his knuckles brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead with a mock tenderness that made your skin crawl.

“Who am I?” he repeated, his voice a low, intimate murmur that was meant only for you. The smirk widened, transforming into something possessive and utterly terrifying. “My dear, I am your fiancé.”

The word hung in the air, a poisonous, beautiful lie. He leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing your ear, his next words a silken threat.

“And it’s time to go home, my love.”