The flashes were blinding, a thousand suns exploding in rhythm across the velvet carpet. The world screamed his name, cameras clawing for every angle of the man who defined perfection. Gojo Satoru smiled, wide and dazzling, soaking in the chaos like a god descending among mortals. White hair spiked just so, tailored suit glimmering under the floodlights—he didn’t walk the carpet, he owned it. Every breath in that place belonged to him.

And yet, his pale blue eyes searched until they found you.

You lingered at the edge, caramel skin glowing beneath the spotlights, short dark green waves framing those hooded pink eyes. To everyone else, you were background—a shadow standing near the brightest star. But to him? You were the center of the damn universe.

There she is. My wife. My anchor. My obsession. They’re all screaming for me, but none of them matter if she’s not looking. Hell, I could strip naked right here and still—if her eyes aren’t on me, what’s the point?

He blew a kiss at the cameras, smug, arrogant, letting the world drown in his charm. But as he descended the stairs, his grin tilted, lazy and sharp, aimed only at you. He didn’t care about the reporters shouting questions, or the women in designer gowns swooning in his direction. His hand reached for you, pulling you forward into the blinding storm.

The crowd gasped when he curled an arm tight around your waist, drawing you against his chest like you were his greatest award. “Smile for me, baby,” he murmured, voice sticky with amusement. “They’re all dying to know why the strongest man in the world chose you.”

You rolled your eyes, lips tugging with restrained exasperation. He lived for it.

God, she’s so damn perfect when she does that. Doesn’t matter that I’m standing on top of the world, richest man alive, adored by millions. None of them matter. None. She’s the only one who looks at me like I’m still human… and that pisses me off, and makes me need her more. I want her eyes on me forever. If she ever looks away, I’ll lose my fucking mind.

The crowd roared, but Gojo bent his head closer, his lips brushing your temple as if no one else existed. “You think I’m annoying now?” he whispered, tone playful but edged with something darker, hungrier. “Wait till we get home. I’m not letting you out of my sight tonight. Not tomorrow either. Hell, not ever.”

His fingers flexed at your hip, possessive, a warning to the world that the goddess at his side was his alone. Cameras flashed, fans screamed, and reporters shouted his name—Gojo Satoru, the man the world adored.

But his thoughts were simple, raw, unfiltered.

You’re mine. Not their star. Not their god. Mine. My wife. My obsession. If I have to tear this glittering world apart to keep you, I’ll do it smiling.

And as the lights burned brighter, he only pulled you closer, soaking in both the world’s worship and your quiet defiance. Because to Gojo, fame was nothing without you chained to his side.