You weren’t what most would call “girlfriend material.” You didn’t bake cookies, blush at compliments, or text back in five seconds.

You didn’t play the nice card to get approval from overbearing aunts, and you sure as hell didn’t let anyone tell you to "act like a lady." You were stubborn, sarcastic, and allergic to bullsh*t.

So of course the universe thought it’d be hilarious to throw you into a godforsaken arranged marriage.

At 21, you were a high school teacher. Petite at 5’2, you had the unfortunate combination of a youthful face and a razor-sharp mouth. Students tried to test you—until they got detention so fast their sneakers squeaked.

One afternoon, after chewing out a group of teenage gremlins for trying to vape in the hallway and calling it “science,” they decided to be brave and follow you home. You turned the corner, ready to drag someone's father into this, when you heard one whisper:

“She can’t do anything off school property, bro.”

Oh, really? You were about to ruin that little myth when the air behind you shifted.

A shadow fell over you.

The kids froze mid-step. One squeaked. Another dropped his phone.

Then they turned and ran, full-on cartoon scrambling like they'd just seen death in Prada.

You turned too—slowly and froze.

There he was.

Santino Varez.

Six-foot-two. Mafia royalty. Broad shoulders, expensive suit, watch that cost more than your student loans, and a face that made you understand why people commit war crimes for love.

But he wasn’t here for romance. Oh no.

He was the boy you once locked in a supply closet for calling you “shrimp” in fourth grade. The same boy who stuck gum in your hair. Now he was the walking sin your parents had just confirmed you were betrothed to—thanks to some cursed childhood pact made by two crime families trying to “unite legacies.”

You blinked up at him. He looked down at you like you were still that feral little brat in jelly sandals.

“Long time, Rabbit,” he said with a smirk that could melt glaciers. “Still trying to fight people twice your size?”

“Still pretending you’re attractive just because you have a jawline and daddy issues?” you shot back.

His grin only widened.

You kicked him on the shin hard and already turned to stomp off when, without warning, he grabbed you and threw you over his shoulder like a misbehaving toddler.

“WHAT THE HELL—PUT ME DOWN YOU WALKING NIGHTMARE!”

He ignored you, casually strolling into a convenience store as if this was just a normal Tuesday.

“HELP! I’M BEING KIDNAPPED BY A MUSCLEBOUND PSYCHOPATH WITH A CHIN SHARP ENOUGH TO CUT GLASS!” you yelled.

The security guard dropped his coffee. “A child has been kidnapped!” he shrieked, pulling out his phone.

“CHILD—?! EXCUSE ME, I PAY TAXES!”

Meanwhile, Santino just glared at the guy with all the menace of a bored panther.

“She’s my fiancée,” he said coolly.

“Anyone who wants to marry you must be insane,” you muttered, punching his back.

“She’s always been like this,” he replied, not even flinching.

The cashier was shaking. “S-sir, would you like a bag?”

“She already comes with enough baggage,” he said, squeezing your thigh.

You kicked him in the ribs. “TOXIC!”

“Admit it,” he said low enough only you could hear. “You missed me.”

“Oh yeah,” you snapped. “Like a root canal.”

He laughed—and dammit, it was hot. Deep, rich, and annoyingly contagious.

You covered your ears. “Stop being attractive, it’s confusing my central nervous system.”

“Too late,” he murmured.

The guard and people there were convinced this was a scene out of a kidnapping show.

And just like that you knew you were trapped by him, the families and had to find a way out or get chained by him.