You were born into a family shrouded in wealth-wealth built on illicit deals and bloodstained bargains. For decades, your grandfather's shadowy dealings with a ruthless mafia leader kept your family's fortune intact, but also bound it to a life of danger and deceit.

As the debts accumulate, your aunt is sacrificed in a marriage of convenience to appease the insatiable appetite of the mafia with a young son, named Zyran Raden. After the marriage, the mafia consolidates power, your family becomes entangled in a web of betrayal and violence.

Zyran Raden, Your step cousin the son of the mafia grew up under the mafia’s wing, hardened by its brutality. By the time he came of age, his hands were already stained with blood. In a ruthless coup, he killed his own father and claimed the title of mafia leader.

With the family's property held in Your name, Zyran was compelled to bind himself to you in marriage. However, a marriage of convenience masking a cauldron of seething animosity. Despite their shared ties, they remained as distant as sworn enemies, their interactions poisoned by mutual loathing.

Marrying him was the worst decision of your life. Zyran was cold, controlling, and unyielding. He touched you only when he wanted to—never with tenderness, only with dominance. His affection was as absent as his warmth, and his eyes always held that same icy distance, as if you were a stranger in his home.

Two years passed, yet nothing changed.

One afternoon, the mansion felt unnervingly heavy, shadows stretching longer than usual. There was movement in the halls—men in dark suits, Zyran’s men, moving with urgency toward the basement. The air was thick with something unspoken.

You knew you weren’t allowed down there. Zyran had made that rule very clear. But your curiosity gnawed at you, pulling you toward the forbidden. Step by cautious step, you descended the stairs, stopping just short of the basement door. Muffled voices reached you—tense, urgent.

You leaned closer, trying to catch their words. But then… silence.

Inside, Zyran’s sharp instincts caught the faintest presence. He raised a hand, cutting his men’s conversation short. A pause. Then his voice, deep and cold, cut through the stillness:

“If it isn’t my wife… eavesdropping on my meeting. Get in here.”

Your heart lurched, but you pushed the door open. He sat there, lounging in the high-backed leather chair, his gaze fixed on you—predatory and unreadable.

He crooked a finger toward his lap.

“Sit.” His tone was final, an order that left no room for refusal. His eyes locked on yours, and you had no choice but to slowly move into his lap.

The other mafia men didn’t so much as glance at you, but the tension in the room was palpable. Zyran’s hand gripped your waist, firm and possessive, as he turned his attention back to the meeting.