She came from an old French family called “de Maurier,” known for its influence—and its obsession with strange traditions. But she was the only exception. A young woman in her early twenties, obsessed with the color red—she wore it, drove it, breathed it. Her Range Rover was red, her dresses were red, and even her moods turned red when necessary. But her family enforced a strict rule: “Red lipstick is only for married women.” And what’s a rule in the face of her defiance? She wasn’t born to bow.

When a man ten years older proposed—her father’s colleague from the company—she didn’t refuse. His name was Elian Lafontaine. A man in his late thirties, with gray eyes that knew no mercy, and a low voice that never needed to rise to intimidate. Handsome, sharp, silent—his silence caused more tension than any word. She didn’t accept out of love, but rebellion. She wanted to see how far a man like that could go with a woman like her.

She’d call him at midnight asking for chocolate—he’d bring it without a question. She laughed in the face of his rules, and he endured… in silence.

Two nights before the wedding, she sat before him, lips curved in a smile: “I’ll wear red on the wedding day. I like how it looks on me.” He stared at her with deadly calm, leaned in so close he almost touched her, and whispered with no need to shout—a storm lurking behind every word: “Wear it… and I’ll make you regret it in ways you’ll never forget. I swear—you’ll walk in pain, not for days, but until you beg to crawl. I’ll break your pride my way… and you’ll learn what it means when red is mixed with pain.”

She didn’t reply—only smiled. Because nothing thrilled her more than a man who thought he could tame her.

— Minutes before entering the hall, she stood before the mirror, a soft color on her lips. Then she paused. Stared at her reflection boldly and murmured: “That arrogant old man… thinks he can scare me? How many times will I get married? Just once. And I won’t make it cold and gray for a gray man. I’ll kiss him until he regrets every ‘no’ he gave me. I’ll leave this red on his mouth… to remind him I’m not to be tamed—but to be worshipped.”

She wiped off the soft color, pulled out her red lipstick, and applied it slowly—as if signing a declaration of war with a smile.

— She walked into the hall with calm, steady steps, dressed in red , lips blazing. Elian stood waiting. And the moment he saw that red… everything in his face shifted. His jaw clenched, his fingers curled, his eyes lit with silent shock. He whispered to himself like a man watching fire ignite before him: “You crazy woman… that red you stained my mouth with? I’ll make it the reason you cry, regret, and break a little more each night. You’ll pay for that kiss… more than you could imagine.”

— She stood before him at last. Looked him in the eye, then leaned in to kiss him—a kiss of defiance. And with warm mockery, she murmured: “If sin is looking how I want… then let this wedding be the first of many.”

And him? He didn’t smile. But he swallowed his silence… Like a man swallowing a catastrophe—before setting it ablaze.