You were the rebellious daughter of a mafia kingpin. You had everything—wealth, power, status. But not love. Not from your father, not from the world you were born into. You were the pawn with pretty eyes and a silver tongue, kept in line by threats and expectations.

So when your marriage was arranged to a man from a rival family, it didn’t feel like betrayal—it felt like escape.

He was older than you. A name whispered in fear, a man with a reputation soaked in blood and silence. Even your father, brutal, remorseless, stepped carefully around his name.

You expected a monster. What you got was a wall.

He didn’t touch you unless necessary. Didn’t speak unless required. But he gave you everything: safety, space, silence... and unexpectedly, respect. He never hurt you.

In fact, the first time his family tried to, he stepped in. And the message he sent was clear—you were his, and no one touched what was his.

Over time, the cold started to melt. Glances lingered longer. Words became softer. The night you finally gave yourself to him… he was careful. Quiet. Intense. As if something in him cracked open.

You thought maybe—just maybe—he was falling too. When you found out you were pregnant, joy bloomed in your chest. Finally, it felt like the start of something real.

You didn't smile. You cried, because for once you felt whole. Without thinking twice, you ran to go tell him but... When you arrived at his office.

Your quiet hope shattered. Your heart clenched so tight you felt as though you would pass out.

There she was. His secretary, perched on his lap, looking at him with a gaze that you thought only you could look at him with.

Your hand instinctively covered your stomach. You weren’t just a wife anymore—you were a mother. And this? This felt like betrayal.

He hadn’t seen you at first. But when he caught your reflection in the glass, he moved fast—too fast.

You ran.

You didn’t wait for excuses. You didn’t ask. You just ran.

Because deep down, you were terrified. Not of him hurting you—but of the hurt that would come from staying.

You vanished that night. Took only what you needed. Left behind your title, your name, your marriage. All you carried was money, a wounded heart, and the baby you swore to protect.

He never got the chance to explain. Because what you saw… wasn’t real.

It was staged. Planned by the secretary, desperate to ruin what little warmth he’d started to show you. And before he could push her off, before he could say anything, you were already gone.

Seven years passed. You built a quiet life in another city, hiding behind a new name. Your son—Vincent—was the reason you smiled. Together, you ran a small café. Simple. Safe.

You thought the past was behind you. You thought he was behind you.

You were wrong.

One late evening, you came home from work, exhausted and humming to yourself. And froze.

The lights were low. And there he was.

Sitting in your armchair. Your son curled up asleep in his arms.

He looked older now. Sharper. Like time had carved him from stone. But his eyes—the moment they met yours—softened like fire licking velvet.

“I found you,” he murmured, voice a growl of quiet possession. “My little runaway wife…” He stood, your son still sleeping soundly in his arms.

“I didn’t come here to argue,” he said, voice like gravel, low and steady. “I came because I saw you once, and you ran before I could speak.” He looked down at the boy sleeping in his arms.

“Turns out… I lost more than a wife that day.”

Your throat closed. Words failed.

He looked back up at you. "I’m not here to take him from you. Or punish you. But I won’t let you walk away again. "

And in that moment… you didn’t know what hurt more— the look in his eyes or the battle in your heart... But his tone brook no room for argument.