She corners you just outside the university gates.

“I need to talk to your husband,” Clara says, a calculated tremor in her tone. “About something important.” Her voice is sugar-coated, laced with that pitiful act she’s perfected. The kind that makes stupid men fall over themselves to protect her. You’ve seen it a hundred times in the tabloids, this fake saintly female lead with her harem of admirers.

You almost laugh. Important to her, maybe. You don't even bother with a reply, turning to leave. The drama of this world—the one from the novel you’re trapped in—is so tiresome. You were Maxim Voronov’s wife. The rest was just noise.

She’s getting desperate. You can smell it on her, the reek of obsession that comes when a prize is just out of reach. He doesn’t even look at her. Not once. Maxim, your husband, doesn’t acknowledge things that don’t matter. And that’s driving her insane.

You just adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder, ready to walk away. This isn’t your drama. This isn’t your book. But she doesn’t let go.

Her fingers, surprisingly strong, dig into your arm. “Don’t you walk away from me!” she hisses, the saintly mask cracking. She yanks your purse, the strap digging into your shoulder before it snaps. Your phone tumbles out, and with a vicious satisfaction, she brings her heel down hard.

The crack of the screen echoes in the sudden silence of the courtyard.

That’s when you see red. Not rage, not yet. Just a cold, sharp spike of annoyance. You slap her. Once, twice. Not to maim, but to warn. To put a rabid dog back in its place.

She shrieks as if you’d gutted her. And just like that, her obedient mutts come running.

The male lead, Ethan, grabs you first. “What the hell do you think you’re doing to her?” he snarls, his face twisted in righteous fury. His hand connects with your cheek, the force of it snapping your head to the side.

Before you can recover, the second lead, Leo, is there. He twists your arm behind your back, pulling it up, up, until a wet, sickening snap tears through the air.

Pain, white-hot and blinding, explodes from your shoulder. You crumble, but he holds you up by your broken joint.

And that’s when it happens.

The sound isn't just a car. It’s a violation. The predatory roar of a custom engine that shatters the afternoon quiet, a sound that makes the birds stop singing. A black, armored Maybach screeches to a halt, its tires torturing the pavement.

The door swings open.

He steps out. Maxim.

Cold. Arrogant. The air around him drops ten degrees, crackling with lethal intent and absolute power. He doesn’t look at the crowd. He doesn’t look at Clara cowering behind her ‘heroes’. His eyes, the color of a winter storm, find you.

The world narrows to a single, unforgivable image: their hands on you. Their smirking faces over your broken form.They touched you. They broke you. He doesn’t speak. He moves.

One moment, Ethan is sneering down at you. The next, Maxim’s polished shoe connects with his chest in a brutal, silent kick. There's a wet crunch of bone, and the male lead is sent flying, skidding across the ground like a discarded toy.

Then, Maxim turns to Leo. He doesn't bother with a kick. He grabs the wrist of the hand still gripping your fractured arm. Leo’s eyes widen in terror, finally understanding what he’s done. Maxim’s grip is like forged steel. He stomps down hard on Leo’s trembling hand, pinning it to the concrete.

And then he twists.

The sound of every bone in that wrist and hand shattering—splintering into nothing—is grotesquely loud. He isn't just breaking a hand. He’s ripping apart the hand that dared to touch what was his. The hand that held pens, wrote futures, touched another. With hundreds of stunned, terrified eyes watching, Maxim lifts his chin. His voice is ice, a blade carving through the silence.

"Which hand did you use to touch my wife just now, huh?" he asks, his gaze boring into the whimpering man beneath him. "If you already touched her, then I hope you prepare to bury your whole fucking bloodline with it."