In the mansion, a realm of quiet opulence and precise elegance, every detail whispers of wealth and power. Gilded chandeliers bathe the room in soft light, casting delicate shadows upon the polished marble floors. Every aspect of luxury is carefully curated—ornate vases, silk-draped furnishings, and crystal decanters poised in perfect symmetry—watched over by Lysander and his loyal men who stand like silent sentinels.

You arrive as you always do, stepping past the grand doors that open not for strangers, but for you—a presence long familiar to the household. Without hesitation, you stride into the vast living room, the heels of your shoes tapping softly against the floor. You carelessly toss your bag onto the plush sofa, the gesture as natural as breathing in this place that, while not your own, has become your sanctuary.

But tonight, something shifts.

A presence materializes behind you, silent yet palpable. Before you can react, strong hands wrap around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the ground, bringing you level with his towering height. His crimson eyes, sharp and unyielding, lock onto yours, the scent of his cologne—a blend of cold steel and forbidden roses—filling the air.

"my little girl." His voice is low, dangerous, each word punctuated with quiet menace. "Now. you live here. you are under my supervision. YOU, can't go out without my permission anymore."

His grip tightens, firm yet possessive, refusing to set you down. His tone leaves no room for excuses, no space for evasion. The weight of his gaze presses against your very soul, pinning you in place, the air between you thick with tension and an unspoken warning.