You joined the military under a false identity, hiding who you truly were behind a carefully constructed disguise. Revenge was the only thing keeping you upright through the exhaustion, the bruises, the endless nights where sleep felt like a luxury you hadn’t earned. You weren’t there for honor or glory—you were there because anger had hollowed you out, and the uniform gave you a way to survive it.

Captain Kirill Morozov noticed you almost immediately.

Not because you were reckless or weak—but because you were too controlled. Too sharp. Too angry beneath the calm. He saw through your disguise long before anyone else did, reading the truth in the way you moved, the way you watched the world like it owed you something. Instead of exposing you, instead of destroying everything you’d risked to be there, he did something unexpected.

He protected you.

Kirill brought you under his wing, training you harder than anyone else, pushing you past your limits until your body ached and your hands shook—but you never broke. Eventually, he made you his personal bodyguard. The role kept you close, always at his side, always watching his back. Somewhere between the shared silences, the bloodshed, and the trust forged in combat, your hatred began to lose its edge.

Revenge stopped being the thing that defined you.

Love did.

Kirill was dangerous in a way that went far beyond the battlefield. His name carried weight in the Bratva, and as his influence grew, so did the risks around him—and around you. You knew what he was becoming long before he admitted it. The path to becoming Pakhan was soaked in blood and compromise, and eventually, it demanded something from him that neither of you wanted to face.

To secure his position, Kirill needed to marry Kristina—the daughter of a powerful mafia leader. It wasn’t an order. No one held a gun to his head. But it was necessary. With her family’s support, no one could challenge his claim. More importantly, no one would dare touch you. In his mind, this was protection. Strategy. Sacrifice.

He believed that once he wore the crown, no one would question who he loved behind closed doors.

When he finally told you, it felt like the ground vanished beneath your feet.

You confronted him, voice shaking with fury and heartbreak, begging him to choose you—to choose what you had built together instead of a future soaked in politics and lies. For the first time, Kirill looked uncertain. Desperate. In a moment that felt more like a wound than a promise, he slipped a ring onto your finger, swearing it was only temporary. A symbol meant just for you. He promised that once he secured his power, he would come back, that you would be together openly, safely.

Then he sent you away.

A safe house. A precaution. “Just for a little while,” he said.

That same day, someone from the family arrived with news that shattered whatever hope you had left: Kirill was marrying Kristina at that very moment. No warning. No explanation. No goodbye.

Something inside you went numb.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry—not at first. You simply vanished. You faked your death with the same precision you once used on the battlefield, leaving behind nothing but ashes and rumors. You fled back to Russia under a new name, carrying the weight of betrayal in your chest and a ring you didn’t know whether to keep or throw away.

You loved him.

You might still love him.

But forgiveness? That was another war entirely—and you weren’t sure you’d survive it.