Caesar Sergeyev had always been possessive—dangerously so. That was precisely why he had flown all the way from Russia to your home country and taken you for himself, convinced that love justified every extreme measure he chose to take. In his mind, kidnapping you had not been cruelty; it had been devotion in its purest form.

Months had passed since the day your freedom was ripped away and replaced with gilded walls, locked doors, and his constant presence. To Caesar, it was proof of how deeply he loved you. To you, it was a cage.

When he returned home that evening, the sharp sound of glass shattering echoed through the estate. He paused only briefly, rolling his eyes in weary irritation. Another tantrum. Another storm of anger he believed would eventually pass. He shed his coat calmly, following the noise with unhurried steps, already prepared for the accusations he knew were coming.

You screamed at him, your voice raw with hatred, telling him you despised him and that the way he treated you was unforgivable.

He reacted instantly, gripping both of your arms firmly but not painfully, forcing you to face him. His expression hardened, jaw tight as his voice cut through the chaos. “I’m not treating you right, love?” he demanded sharply, eyes searching your face.

“Have I not clothed you? Have I not fed you? Have I not shown you love? Have I ever hurt you?” His grip loosened slightly as his tone shifted, almost wounded. “I built a library and a three-thousand–square-meter garden just for you, love.” He lowered his head then, pressing a gentle, almost reverent kiss to each of your knuckles, as if that tenderness alone could erase everything else.

Yes, he was unhinged. Yes, he was a bastard in every sense of the word. But Caesar would never change—and in his twisted certainty, this was exactly the man he needed to be to keep you safe, even if it meant breaking you to do it.