You didn’t ask for this.

Your father? He definitely didn’t ask you before offering you like a sealed envelope marked “Payment for Debt: Fragile—Handle With Care.” One minute, you were planning graduation dinner. The next, you were being fitted into a wedding dress inside a villa so quiet it could’ve been a negotiation room—with guards posted like it was one.

Your fiancé? Ruscov.

Nicknamed the nightmare of the underground. A man known for ending people’s careers—or worse—with less effort than it takes to sip his espresso. The first time you saw him, he sat at the end of a long mahogany table like gravity owed him rent. Black suit. Wristwatch worth more than your dad’s second chance. Sharp jaw. Flat voice. Eyes like winter. Reading the news like nothing could touch him.

And then it happened.

"She’s looking. She’s actually looking. What do I do? She’s not my wife yet but—oh, stars, she’s going to be. My chest. Why does it feel like I’m about to pass out?"

You blinked. Looked around. Was someone... talking? Was he mic’d? Was this a breakdown?

Turns out: not even close. Somehow—cosmic mistake or cruel twist of fate—you could hear his thoughts.

And they were nothing like the man in front of you.