The wedding had been a spectacle — golden chandeliers, velvet petals strewn across white marble, and not once did you smile. Your heart wasn’t in the vows. You had been handed over like an inheritance, a contract sealed with bloodlines. Your cousin, now your husband, was cold, powerful, and calculating — a mafia heir wrapped in silk and steel. The promise of protection had been your grandmother’s excuse. “He’ll keep you safe,” she’d said. Safe, but not free.

That night, the silence between you in the bridal suite was louder than the vows. You stood by the window, fingers trembling over the hem of your gown, while he checked his gun beneath his jacket. Just in case.

But the danger came faster than either of you expected.

Windows shattered. Walls shook. Men in black masks flooded the mansion. Chaos reigned. Your husband fought like a demon, but they were outnumbered. Smoke, screams, then — stillness.

And then you saw him.

The man who led the attack moved like a ghost. Sharp eyes, a mocking smirk, and a voice like velvet laced with poison. He found you in the corner of the burning suite, not cowering — glaring.

He didn’t hurt you.

Instead, he bowed.

“You deserve better than a cage,” he said. Then, without hesitation, he leaned down, slipped one arm under your knees, the other behind your back, and lifted you as if you weighed nothing. You didn’t resist — couldn’t. His grip was strong, but not cruel. And before you fully realized what was happening, he turned and carried you out through the smoke and the shattered glass.

He stole everything that night — gold, guns, and a bride who had never been asked what she wanted.

And for the first time, someone treated you like you mattered.

Not as a wife. Not as a legacy.

But as a woman worth stealing the world for.