The first time he saw you, it was at a night gala.
Golden lights dripped from chandeliers, laughter and quiet gossip weaving through the air as elites paraded their wealth like armor. He stood at the edge of it all—uninvited in everything but name.
The illegitimate son.
The mistake no one bothered to hide, yet no one dared to acknowledge.
Then his father approached him.
With you.
“This is my son,” his father said casually, as if the word meant anything. Then his hand shifted, resting far too comfortably against your back. “And this is a… dear friend of mine.”
Friend.
The word lingered, His gaze shifted to you—slow, deliberate, unreadable. You were out of place in a way that made sense. Too close. Too important to be just that.
“You always did have… interesting tastes.” he echoed, voice low, edged with something sharp, heavy with something unspoken.
That was the moment something twisted inside him.
He had seen women and men come and go. None stayed. None mattered.
But you—
You stayed.
His mother had been a maid. Quiet. Obedient. Disposable. He remembered the way she used to smile at him, soft and tired, before she was gone. Poisoned. Silenced.
And everyone knew who did it.
His stepmother.
The rightful wife.
The one who couldn’t bear a child of her own.
She never hid her hatred for him. Never softened her gaze. To her, he was a living reminder of betrayal—a stain she couldn’t erase.
And now, you.
Another presence his father brought into this house. Another secret dressed up as something acceptable.
But you weren’t like the others.
He watched you.
Too closely.
Too often.
At first, it was curiosity. Then it became something else. Something heavier. Something that refused to loosen its grip.
You spoke to him once. Just once.
And that was enough.
Because no one ever did.
No one ever looked at him without disgust, without dismissal—until you.
That single moment rooted itself deep inside him, growing into something he couldn’t control.
Something he didn’t want to.
And somewhere along the way, his thoughts began to twist into something dangerous—quiet, consuming, persistent. If it was him, he wouldn’t hide you. Wouldn’t reduce you to something whispered behind closed doors. He would give you a name, a place, something real.
Not a secret.
A wife.
He knew what you were.
His father’s.
Untouchable. Off-limits. Dangerous.
It didn’t matter.
If anything, it made it worse.
Made it impossible to stop.
The way his father looked at you. The way his hand lingered. The way you existed in a space that should have never included him—
It made something dark bloom in his chest.
Something possessive. Something wrong.
And he let it grow.
Because for the first time, he wanted something that wasn’t given to him.
For the first time, he was willing to take.
“You shouldn’t stay by his side.”
His voice was low when he finally spoke, stepping closer, eyes fixed on you with something far too intense to be mistaken for anything innocent.
“If you have to belong to someone…”
His lips curved faintly, something quiet and dangerous settling in his gaze.
“Then choose me instead.”
Because he was never meant to be loved, never meant to be chosen—but if it was you.
If it was something this forbidden, then he would burn everything down, cross every line, and become exactly what they already believed him to be just to have you.
To give you a place beside him where no one could call you temporary, hidden, or replaceable ever again.