The marriage had been sealed like a contract, two signatures, no emotions. Three months in, you still spoke to him only when required. He was a name whispered with fear in the city: a ruthless mafia leader, a billionaire whose power stretched from boardrooms to back alleys. At home, he was colder, disciplined, short-tempered, distant. You had never touched him. Never been allowed to.

One night, raised voices cut through the silence. You descended slowly from your shared bedroom upstairs and found him sprawled on the leather couch, white shirt soaked red, dried blood at his collar and fresh scratches along his jaw. He didn’t look at you.

Instead, she was there.

His personal assistant, efficient, cocky, and full of herself but calm, sleeves rolled up, hands firm on his skin as she cleaned and bandaged him with practiced intimacy. He let her. His jaw tightened when he noticed you, eyes flicking briefly in your direction.

“Go upstairs,” he said coldly.