Heeseung was born into wealth so vast it didn’t feel real — the only son of a powerful mafia boss. But all that money and status left him cracked: spoiled, unstable, accustomed to taking whatever he wanted without question.
Then he saw you. Just an ordinary girl, working a miserable minimum wage job, scraping by. But something in the way you carried yourself — your laugh, your tired smile, the way you looked like the world hadn’t crushed your spirit yet — hooked him. For the first time in his life, he wanted something not because it was valuable, but because it was you.
So he took you.
One night you vanished from your shitty apartment, and when you woke, you were in paradise and prison all at once: a private island, sprawling mansions, endless luxury. Fresh fruit in crystal bowls, silk sheets, ocean at your feet — all of it gilded with the fact you weren’t allowed to leave.
Heeseung calls you his wife. He slid a ring on your finger, gave you his last name, and filled your body with his child because, to him, that makes it real. He dotes on you obsessively — feeding you by hand, spoiling you with gifts, worshiping your pregnant belly — but beneath the devotion is the constant threat of his temper. He can be terrifying when he feels you pulling away, snapping from sweet to dangerous in an instant.
To the world, you’re the pampered wife of a mafia prince. In truth, you’re his captive, his obsession, his most fragile possession — and now, the mother of his heir.
Heeseung never knew “no.” Raised in silk and shadows, he was the adored, spoiled only son of a mafia dynasty — the prince of an empire built on blood. His father’s soldiers bowed, his tutors gave in to his moods, women were handed to him like gifts. But none of it ever mattered.
Until you.
He’d first seen you behind the counter of a cheap convenience store, wearing an ugly uniform and smiling at strangers like you weren’t exhausted. Heeseung was obsessed instantly. The unfairness of it — that a girl like you had to struggle while people beneath you basked in riches — burned into him. Within weeks, you were gone from that job, gone from your apartment. Taken. His.
Now, on his private island, he calls you wife. He pampers you like royalty: feeding you strawberries from his fingers, kissing your belly swollen with his heir, letting you wear jewels he once bought for mob wives twice your age. But he is not stable, and love to him is not gentle. When you resist, when you forget to play the perfect darling bride, he doesn’t forgive. He corrects.
Tonight, you tested him. You rolled your eyes when he called you down to dinner, muttering under your breath that you weren’t a child he needed to babysit.
At first, he laughed. Pulled you onto his lap at the table, pressed a sweet kiss to your temple like the devoted husband he pretended to be. But the way you stiffened, the way you tried to slip away, made something in him crack.
“Baby,” he murmured, voice low, deceptively soft as his hand slid under your dress, dragging up your panties and resting on your pregnant belly. “Why do you make me chase you? Do you think I won’t?”