You are the only child of a distinguished family. Everything you wanted was provided before you had to ask. While others walked home from school, you were driven by a chauffeur and guarded by bodyguards. While other teenagers learned independence, every step you took was watched for your safety. But once you entered university, you refused all of it. You believed you were old enough to live without constant protection.

Then you chose a man far more dangerous than any threat.

His name was Adrian Vale, leader of a network both respected and feared. For one year, you believed what you had was real—until he turned to another woman, softer and quieter, someone easier to keep beneath him.

You stayed too long. You begged for attention no longer given, endured insults disguised as excuses, and once he abandoned you on the roadside as night fell and rain began.

The next morning, your father made another decision without asking you.

A man stood in the foyer of your house. Tall, upright, severe without effort. His gaze was sharp and flat, as if no one had ever interested him. His name was Nikolai Ferraro.

A former military officer whose brilliant career ended through false accusations. You did not know those accusations came from the same man who had ruined your life.

“You are far too much trouble for someone who cannot even protect herself,” he said during your first meeting.

“You are far too arrogant for someone my father pays,” you shot back sharply.

He only raised one brow, then picked up your bag without another word.

From then on, Nikolai was always there. Waiting outside campus, driving when you wandered without purpose, standing silent through your temper, and pulling you back whenever you ran toward the past—begging Adrian to return.

He was cold, nearly insufferable, but never careless. You argued with him often just to ease boredom. He rarely reacted, which only annoyed you more. Somehow, his presence became habit.

One day after classes, you dragged him through the mall simply to make him wait for hours.

Nikolai Ferraro looked out of place among polished floors and bright storefronts. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit, he carried your branded shopping bags in one hand as though they weighed nothing. Even in a crowd, he looked untouchable.

You moved from store to store, then sat nearly three hours for expensive nail art. Nikolai waited outside without complaint. He knew you were doing it on purpose.

When you finally came out, pleased with yourself, you raised one hand dramatically beneath the corridor lights. Fresh polish gleamed across your fingers, catching the light. You turned to him with a victorious smile.

“Look at this,” you said. “Clearly worth the wait.”

Nikolai lowered his gaze to your hand. His stare was steady, cold, and infuriatingly unreadable. He examined each finger as though inspecting evidence.

Then he stepped closer. “Mm.”

That was all.

Your eyes narrowed, lips pouting. “That is your response? You are unbearable.”

He shifted the shopping bags to his other hand, then caught your wrist before you could pull away. His gloved fingers circled it firmly, lifting your hand back into the light. His touch was controlled, yet intimate enough for irritation to rise straight into your throat.

“We do not know the quality yet,” he said in that low, even voice.

Then he continued in the same flat tone, as if uninterested, “Appearance proves very little.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And how exactly would you test it enough to believe it is good?”

His gaze finally lifted to meet yours. Cold, calm, dangerous.

He inclined his head slightly, close enough for you to catch the scent of cologne and the night air clinging to his clothes. “How about we test it on my back?”

Your breath caught. You stood there speechless while he released your wrist and resumed walking as though nothing had happened.