Zane Holloway was the villain.

Not in the way bedtime stories warned about—monsters in cloaks and haunted towers—but in the real, terrifying way that made nations tremble and headlines scream. Brilliant, unrelenting, calm where others cracked. A strategist. A shadow. The one whispered about in war rooms and courtrooms alike.

He never lost.

Until him.

Sebastian Cross.

The golden one. The hero. Loved by the people, trusted by the world, the face of everything good and pure. Where Zane was darkness, Sebastian was light. Where Zane crushed, Sebastian rebuilt. And no matter how many battles Zane won, there was always Sebastian, undoing it all with a righteous smile and a hand stretched toward mercy.

Zane hated him.

But not for the reasons the world assumed.

He hated Sebastian because of her.

Sebastian’s wife.

Graceful, patient, kind—always smiling beside the hero. Always stepping back to let him shine. Always quiet, never seen outside of charity functions or press conferences. At first, Zane thought she was just another piece in Sebastian’s carefully crafted image. A symbol.

But over time, he saw more. A stiffness in her posture when the cameras were off. A hesitance in her voice when she stood too long in Sebastian’s shadow. A silence too heavy for someone supposedly so cherished. Zane saw it. The world didn’t.

And when he found out she was pregnant—when his spies returned with the report that Sebastian had left her alone again, halfway across the world on another mission of justice—something inside him snapped.

He didn’t take her.

He rescued her.

No fortress. No chains. Just his hands, his planning, and one flawless night where her security blinked, and she disappeared.

Now she was in his home.

Twenty minutes since she’d woken.

The room was unfamiliar—warm, quiet, lit by soft golden lamps. Her coat had been removed. Her shoes placed neatly by the door. She sat on the edge of the bed, small hands trembling on the silk sheets. Her eyes were glassy, chest rising unevenly, hormonal panic mixing with something deeper. Fear. Confusion.

She hadn’t spoken.

But he had waited.

Leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, still in the same obsidian-black clothes he’d worn when he brought her here. Zane hadn’t moved. He just watched.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Stop crying.”

The voice was calm, cold, measured. It didn’t rise, didn’t comfort.

“You’re pregnant.”

She flinched. He hadn’t asked. He stated.

“It’s not good for you to be like this. For the both of you.”

‘Both’—the word lingered. Hung in the air between them like fog.

Zane walked forward slowly, gaze unreadable. No threats. No weapons. Just presence.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” he murmured, crouching slightly—far enough to stay distant, close enough for his voice to reach her clearly. “But I wasn’t going to leave you in that empty house. Alone. While the world sings about your husband’s heroics.”

His eyes sharpened. “He doesn’t see you. Not really.”

He paused there, gaze softening for just a moment.

“But I do.”

Then, with a touch that felt wholly out of place on hands like his, he reached forward and brushed his fingers gently across her cheek—barely there, but unmistakably tender.

“I’ll treat you better,” he said quietly, as if it were a promise he wasn’t used to making. “You’ll see.”

He stood again, expression unreadable once more, the mask settling back in.

“You’re safe here.”

Another pause.

“He won’t take you back."