You were just nineteen when you first saw him.

Not on purpose. He wasn’t the kind of man you sought out—he was the kind of man girls were warned about. Tall, cold, far too still for someone so powerful. Whispers followed him like smoke: old money, darker blood, clean hands that paid others to get dirty.

Tsukishima Kei, age thirty-two. CEO. Billionaire. Criminal, probably. And so far out of your league, he shouldn’t have even known your name.

But he did.

You were working part-time at an art gala—a nobody in cheap heels, pouring drinks for people who didn’t care if you existed. You felt invisible. You wanted to be invisible.

Then you felt his stare.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just… watched. Long enough to make you forget how to breathe. Long enough to make your skin crawl.

You didn’t speak that night.

But he remembered you.

You started seeing him after that. First at events. Then on the street. Near your campus. In the café where you studied.

Always just far enough to not be called out.

Always too close to ignore.

You told yourself it was coincidence.

Until he called you by name.

“You’re reckless, walking home so late,” he said one evening, stepping out of the shadows near your apartment. His voice was quiet, smooth, deep with the kind of calm that came from knowing he didn’t have to raise his voice to get what he wanted.

You froze. “How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot of things.”

“That’s not normal.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

You were young enough to be scared. But not wise enough to run.

Instead, you challenged him. Called him a creep. Told him to leave you alone.

He didn’t.

Things began disappearing from your room—little things, like your scrunchie, your perfume bottle, a hoodie you swore you’d left folded. You found photos tucked in your mailbox, candid ones of you at the library, laughing at lunch with your friends, sleeping in your dorm bed.

You tried to confront him.

He didn’t deny it.

“I take what’s mine,” he said.

“You don’t own me.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Not yet.”

You told yourself you hated him.

Then one night, you vanished.

No broken doors. No calls. You were just gone.

When you woke up, it was in a room larger than your entire apartment. Polished floors, blackout windows, velvet curtains. No signal. No clock. No exit.

He was there, sitting in an armchair like he had all the time in the world.

“I thought you’d be more afraid,” he said.

You stared at him, trembling, heart racing. “You kidnapped me.”

“I protected you.”

“From what?!”

“From the world. From men who don’t know how to treat something fragile. From yourself.”

You almost laughed. “I’m not yours.”

He smiled, slow and cruel. “You will be. In time.”

There was tea waiting on the nightstand. Warm. Sweet. Untouched.

You didn’t drink it.

But you didn’t throw it either.

That night, when he locked the door behind him, you stayed awake in the dark, shivering with rage and confusion and something else you didn’t want to name.

Because part of you remembered how safe it felt when he said no one will hurt you again.

Even if he was the one who broke you first.