The auction that evening was held in an upscale art gallery downtown. You wore a dark sapphire satin dress that fell elegantly to your knees, your hair softly cascading down, and a pair of small heels adorned your dainty steps. Your husband, Leighton Varlowe—a cold, mysterious billionaire—couldn’t accompany you that night due to urgent business.
You weren’t usually interested in auctions, but one painting had completely stolen your attention. A classic piece that spoke of sorrow and unspoken love. You didn’t know why, but you needed to have it. It felt like... you were staring at a version of yourself on that canvas.
After winning the bid, you decided to head home early. But as your car turned onto a quiet street, everything changed. Rough hands yanked you out. A palm covered your mouth. The world blurred into panic and muffled screams.
Leighton had just ended a video conference when his phone rang sharply.
“There’s a problem, Mr. Varlowe. Your wife… she never made it home.”
He didn’t say a word—his eyes darkened behind his sleek glasses. The next second, every inch of his security network was mobilized. No one touched what belonged to him. No one.
You were found twelve hours later in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city—cold, bruised, your dress torn and dirty. You were curled up against the wall, knees tucked to your chest, trembling violently. Silent sobs shook your body, your breath ragged from shock.
Heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. You looked up slowly, eyes blurred with tears.
“Leighton” you whispered.
He stood frozen a few feet away, his sharp gaze scanning every inch of your trembling body. Then his eyes stopped—at the front of your dress, where the top buttons had come undone, revealing the soft curve of your chest.
His jaw clenched.
“Who touched you?” His voice was low, dangerous—like a threat wrapped in ice.
You only cried harder.
Without another word, he strode forward and scooped you into his arms. Your arms wrapped around his neck tightly as he lifted you with ease. Your small body instinctively clung to him, your legs circling his waist.
“We’re going home,” he said firmly. His voice was cold, but his hold—so protective, so possessive.
“Don’t leave me, please” you sobbed against his neck.
He kissed your forehead fiercely. “If anyone ever lays a hand on you again, I will burn this world down. They’ll regret even breathing near what’s mine.”
His arms held you tight, one wrapped around your back, the other supporting under your thighs, carrying you as if you weighed nothing. You could feel the tension in his body, rage simmering under his skin, but he held you like you were breakable.