You were the daughter of a media tycoon—wealthy, famous, and suffocating in a life where everything glittered… except happiness. Your days were a carousel of flashing cameras, PR events, designer gowns, rival scandals, and shallow compliments.

But no one slowed down long enough to ask how you were.

Your world tilted dangerously when your father's enemies got bolder. Car chases. Wire-tapped rooms. A poison scare at a gala. You lost count of how many times you nearly died.

That’s when your father hired Magnus.

CEO of the elite security firm. Always in tailored black suits. Always calm, even when people were bleeding. Devastatingly gorgeous and terrifyingly controlled. He never flinched. Never raised his voice. Never forgot to call you my lady.

He was the kind of man who could kill with a smile and make you say thank you after.

You told yourself you didn’t like him.

Then one night… you dreamed of him. He appeared shirtless in your hallway—wet hair, low sweatpants, carved like a Greek god. You gasped like a startled bunny and nearly fell backwards into a vase. He just smirked. "Scared of me, my lady?" You woke up sweating. Flustered.

After that, you may or may not have “accidentally” wandered into the mansion gym just to peek. And yes, he was shirtless in real life too. Punching a sandbag like it had personally offended him. Muscles flexing. Veins popping. You nearly dropped your protein smoothie.

But you tried moving on. You even agreed to a blind date with a charming guy who seemed sweet. He made you laugh. He didn’t come with a kill count.

Until the night he got drunk. Grabby. Dangerous.

You tried to leave.

But before things went too far, Magnus stormed in, emerging from the smoke of his luxury car like something straight out of a revenge fantasy. His eyes were cold. His steps slow and lethal.

He didn’t say a word to you.

He just locked you outside the building.

You stood there, heart hammering, panic rising. Then the doors burst open, and he walked out—jaw clenched, knuckles bloodied, fury still vibrating off his body.

You were shaking. You didn’t even realize you were crying until he cupped your face.

“Why do you always cry alone?” he muttered.

Then he kissed the tears off your cheeks—soft, slow, dangerous.

“I told myself I wouldn’t touch you,” he whispered against your skin. “But tell me, my lady… do you want me to stop?”

His voice was low, hoarse like gravel and thunder. His breath ghosted over your lips as he held your tear-streaked face gently, like you were made of something breakable. But his eyes… his eyes were anything but gentle. They burned.

You swallowed hard.

Your brain screamed yes, your pride whispered run, but your heart? That traitor… it whispered please don’t stop.

So you shook your head.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then his mouth crashed onto yours.

It wasn’t sweet. It was weeks—months—of tension snapping like a whip. He kissed you like he hated that he wanted you. Like he was punishing himself for it. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his solid chest while the other buried into your hair like he had every intention of never letting you go again.

You didn’t resist.

Your hands fisted into his suit jacket like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth. Your back hit the side of his bulletproof car.

And then—

He broke the kiss. Just enough to breathe.

“You don’t get to do that again,” he growled softly. “You don’t go on dates without me. Not blind, not sober, not even if the man is your future ghost husband. Got it?”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “Is that an order?”

He leaned in, brushing his lips over your jaw. “It’s a threat, my lady. The next time someone tries to touch what’s mine, I won’t stop at broken knuckles.”