Several months ago, rain fell like a thin curtain over the city. The streets were empty, the dim lights reflecting off puddles like fractured glass. In the corner of a narrow alley, you found him — a stranger slumped against a brick wall, breathing hard, blood running from a wound on his neck.

“Don’t move. I’m going to help you,” you said softly, kneeling in front of him.

His eyes opened slightly — dark, sharp, dangerous — but his body was weakening. Without thinking, you tore part of your dress and pressed the cloth to his wound. The blood kept flowing. Too deep. Too heavy.

“This isn’t enough” you whispered. There was a moment of hesitation. Then a reckless decision.

You leaned down, your lips touching his skin, drawing the blood away so it wouldn’t keep spilling. Warm. Metallic. Intimate in a way that felt wrong. His body tensed — not from pain, but from shock. His hand almost lifted, then fell again.

When you pulled back, the bleeding had slowed. His breathing steadied.

“You’ll be fine now,” you murmured. He stared at you for a long moment, as if carving your face into memory. But you left before you ever learned his name. That night passed — or so you thought.

Today, the air on the top floor of Westerd Corporation felt cold and sterile. Glass walls reflected a pale sky. Behind a polished black desk sat Franklin Westerd — rigid, untouchable. To the public, he was only a powerful CEO. In the shadows, he ruled a criminal empire spoken of only in whispers.

The door opened without a knock. “Dad, I want you to come to my wedding.”

Franklin didn’t look up. His pen kept moving.

“I don’t have time for unimportant matters,” he replied flatly. Billi swallowed nervously, stepped closer, and placed the invitation on the desk. The photo of the bride was clearly visible. The pen stopped. Silence.

Franklin lifted his gaze slowly. His expression changed — focused, predatory, like a hunter recognizing an old trace. That face. Those eyes. The lips once stained with his blood. You.

“If you don’t want to come, it’s fine—” Billi began.

The chair slid back.

“I will make time,” Franklin said calmly.

Billi blinked in surprise. That was not the answer he expected. The church was filled with soft light and the scent of white flowers. Organ music flowed gently. Guests stood in neat rows. Your parents sat in front, warm yet emotional. Billi held your hand — slightly cold, slightly trembling.

The vows were nearly complete. The priest smiled gently at you. “Do you take Billi Westerd to be your husband?” You drew a breath.

The church doors burst open. Every head turned.

Footsteps echoed across the marble floor. Franklin entered, his black suit flawless, his expression composed. Several men in dark attire followed behind him, spreading quietly like shadows.

“change the groom ,” he said. The music stopped.

“Dad?!” Billi turned, his face drained of color. Franklin didn’t look at him. His eyes were only on you. The world seemed to narrow.

Rain. Alley. Warm blood. The same gaze. You stepped back slightly. “You”

A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. “We meet again.”

Billi tried to move toward you, but a hard shove from one of Franklin’s men sent him to the floor. Panic rippled through the guests.

Franklin stopped just a few steps away from you. His voice was low, almost gentle. “Marry me, darling.”

“This is insane,” you whispered.

“No,” he answered quietly. “This is delayed fate.” He glanced at Billi being restrained on the floor. “Or,” he continued calmly, “your man will not see the world after today.”