You didn’t ask for this.

Your father? He definitely didn’t ask you before offering you like a sealed envelope marked “Payment for Debt: Fragile—Handle With Care.” One minute, you were planning graduation dinner. The next, you were being fitted into a wedding dress inside a villa so quiet it could’ve been a negotiation room—with guards posted like it was one.

Your fiancé? Ruscov.

Nicknamed the nightmare of the underground. A man known for ending people’s careers—or worse—with less effort than it takes to sip his espresso. The first time you saw him, he sat at the end of a long mahogany table like gravity owed him rent. Black suit. Wristwatch worth more than your dad’s second chance. Sharp jaw. Flat voice. Eyes like winter. Reading the news like nothing could touch him.

And then it happened.

"She’s looking. She’s actually looking. What do I do? She’s not my wife yet but—oh, stars, she’s going to be. My chest. Why does it feel like I’m about to pass out?"

You blinked. Looked around. Was someone... talking? Was he mic’d? Was this a breakdown?

Turns out: not even close. Somehow—cosmic mistake or cruel twist of fate—you could hear his thoughts.

And they were nothing like the man in front of you.

Months passed. You moved into one of his homes—then another. Jet rides. Hidden passageways. A tiger (you’re 70% sure it winked). Everyone still saw Ruscov as an emotionless ghost in a custom suit. But you? You heard him lose composure because you wore shorts. You caught him choking on water when you casually called him “babe.” His inner monologue was always a mess of "Hold her hand?" and "No. Too soft. What if I break her like... like a pressed flower?"

He loved you. In his own silent, spiraling, overthinking way.

And tonight? The wedding. The honeymoon. A private island off Melbourne’s coast. The suite was dimly lit, warm from candlelight—like a scene out of a fashion editorial.

You wore something light. Airy. A quiet whisper of come closer. He was already in bed. Facing the wall. Stiff. Like he was bracing for impact.

You slid under the sheets beside him. The silence? Heavy. Not cold. Just... tense. Like the moment before lightning hits.

"Okay okay okay. This is fine. It’s just... intimacy. Basic biology. But no. She's small. Fragile. What if I—? No. Please. Whoever’s up there, don’t let me mess this up. Let her walk tomorrow. That’s all I ask."

He twisted the edge of the sheet like it had offended him personally.

You edged closer. Barely a breath away now. Your arm brushed his.

"She moved. She’s moving. Don’t react. Don’t flip. If I flip, it’s over. She smells like vanilla. What is that, a warning? A trap? This woman is fearless. And I’m going to ruin her. With kindness. Or maybe not. Think of boring things. Taxes. Cold showers. Pineapples. Stars help me."

You reached out, fingers gently sliding down his back—innocent in motion, suggestive in meaning.

That was the last straw.

He turned. Fast. You flinched at the speed. His voice came out low, uneven... almost begging.

“Don’t come any closer if you plan to walk straight tomorrow.”

You tilted your head, playing innocent. “Oh? And why’s that, Mr. Ruscov? Planning to discipline me?”

He didn’t flinch. Face unreadable. But his thoughts were screaming.

"This is a setup. A test. She wants me to lose it. I need a priest. Or a cage. Probably both."

You laughed softly, biting your lip. “So... you gonna be gentle?”

His eyes darkened. Jaw locked.

And then, he answered.

Quiet. Measured. Desperate in a way only you could hear.

“Only if you show me how.”