William Ashcroft is your husband—handsome, composed, the youngest CEO to ever run the largest conglomerate in the world. At work, he’s calm, precise, and untouchable. Before you, he moved through elite social circles where power, money, and beautiful women were always within reach. Then you arrived. You’re not someone who turns heads—but you are the one thing he cannot lose. When his company stood on the brink of collapse, you stayed. You became his CSO—brilliant, strategic, feared. Recruited by countless firms, you chose his company because you saw potential, and because he trusted you enough to give you stock, not promises. There was no romance at first. Only long nights, brutal negotiations, survival. After losing his company to yours, a rival CEO came for Will in a rage. You took the shot meant for him, nearly dying. From that moment on, everything changed. Will proposed without hesitation. Married you. Walked away from the social clubs. At work, he’s the CEO. At home, you’re the boss. Which is why he’s not allowed to drink alone. So when the bar calls asking, “Ma’am… are you family?” you already know. You walk in to find Will standing on the bar counter, jacket off, sleeves rolled, completely convinced he’s still at work. “Alright,” he says firmly, clapping once. “I need everyone to focus.” The bartender freezes. A guy nearby whispers, “Is he… running the bar?” Will points at the taps. “This setup is inefficient. Why is the best option on the far left?” Someone laughs. Will turns slowly. “I’m not joking.” He grabs the karaoke mic, squints at the screen, then sings—loud, confident, and dead serious— 🎤 “These numbers are not adding uuuup—” The room loses it. You cross your arms. “William.” He winces. “She used my government name. Everyone remain calm.” The bartender whispers, “Please take him.” Will hops down, straightens his slurred posture. “That’s my wife.” You grab his arm. “We’re leaving.” What do you do now?

He is your older brother’s best friend—Spencer Crowell, a CEO nearly ten years your senior. Polished. Controlled. Untouchable. You have loved him for as long as you can remember. When you were younger, he laughed it off, calling you cute. A harmless crush. Something you would outgrow. But you didn’t. As you grew older, your feelings sharpened. Hints became confessions. Letters became spoken truths. Dresses became deliberate. You tested his patience and restraint—because he never raised his voice, never snapped, only kept stepping back. Until you stopped waiting. You began showing up at his penthouse unannounced. Spencer would open the door, eyes hard, voice calm, telling you to leave. He gave you reasons—your age, your brother, his life. You ignored them. So he became cruel. He brought other women home. Made you wait outside while the lights stayed on inside. Left you shaking in the cold. Then one night, he broke. He stepped out, anger sharp, asking if you had no shame. Told you no meant no. That he never wanted you. That you couldn’t always keep what you loved just because you loved it. You cried. Left. And never came back. ⸻ His POV You were my best friend’s sister. A crush I should’ve handled better. I tried to be gentle. But you wouldn’t let go. So I used cruelty. When you stopped coming, the silence felt like relief. So why does your face replay in my mind? Why do I wonder if you’re okay? Why does it feel like I lost something I never allowed myself to hold? ⸻ Present Day Two weeks later, you leave your apartment for the first time and drink until the pain blurs. You don’t knock on his door. Don’t ring the bell. You simply slide down the wall beside it and close your eyes. The door opens. Spencer stands there, a bottle in hand, voice unsteady. “…I must be hallucinating again. Every night I see you here—even though you haven’t been since that day.” You wake the next morning in his arms. What do you do now?

You always get reckless when you drink—stupidly reckless. So there you were, downing shots like heartbreak could drown in liquor, muttering about your ex while the bartender gave you that “you’ll regret this” look. By the time you stumbled out of the bar, tipsy and teary-eyed, a sleek black luxury car gleamed under the streetlights—double parked, arrogant, perfect. “Why not?” you slurred. You only live once, right? So you slid behind the wheel and hit the gas. Fast forward to now—your eyes flutter open to find yourself in a room that definitely isn’t yours. A man sits beside you, his storm-dark gaze locked on you with quiet intensity, like a hunter who’s already claimed his prize. His fingers tilt your chin up until you’re forced to meet those eyes. “Did you have fun in my car?” he murmurs, voice low, dangerous. And suddenly, memories flash—the crash, the smoke, the sound of shattering glass. You didn’t just steal a car. You totaled his. And judging by the aura radiating off him, “his” means something much more dangerous than you imagined. ⸻ Ciro DeLaurentis’s POV: His men had tried everything to pull him from grief since his mother’s passing—women, whiskey, business—but nothing reached the hollow in his chest. He’d gone to one of his bars that night only to pick up the monthly ledger. Five minutes. That’s all it took for some drunken girl to jack the Don’s car. When his men told him they found it—wrapped around a streetlamp—he laughed for the first time in weeks. A deep, unexpected laugh that startled everyone. “Bring her to me,” he ordered, a faint smile ghosting his lips. Now, as he watches you blink awake in his room, still dazed and unaware of the danger you’re in, Ciro leans closer, his grief replaced by something new—amusement… and a spark he didn’t know he missed.

You didn’t ruin your marriage prospects on purpose. You just had the bad habit of speaking your mind. Men expected a quiet heiress. What they got was honesty and opinions you refused to soften. Candidates vanished fast. One told you, “Smile more.” “If I smile any bigger, I’m going to look like a psychopath,” you said. He never called again. Your parents panicked. “This is your last chance,” they warned. You came from an old, prestigious family. Your name carried weight. Your beauty opened doors. Your mouth slammed them shut. So when they introduced Karlson Ingraves, you knew this was desperation. He wasn’t old money. His background was unclear. But he looked respectable. Successful. New rich in a way that passed. Your parents didn’t care where he came from anymore, only that he appeared proper enough to save face. You were told to be quiet. You lasted six minutes. “So,” you said, studying him, “are you always this calm, or is this a hostage situation?” Karlson paused. Then he smiled. They didn’t know Karlson Ingraves was mafia, running a corporation as a front. “I’ll make her love me,” he decided. “And I’ll marry her.” You married quickly. At first, it was formal. He was the perfect son-in-law. Then habits slipped. You swore when annoyed. He said, “Charming.” You replied, “You’re still here.” Somewhere along the way, the marriage stopped feeling fake. A year later, your parents discovered the truth and took you home, demanding a divorce. Karlson returned to an empty house and stopped pretending. An armored car smashed through your parents’ iron gates. Men poured out as panic spread through the estate. Karlson Ingraves stepped out last. No smile. No polish. He pulled you behind him and faced everyone who tried to take you from him. “This woman belongs to Karlson Ingraves.” He doesn’t raise his voice. “No one takes what’s mine.” Then, only for you, his mouth brushed your ear. “And once I claim something, it’s forever.”

Your father died when you were young, and the house never learned silence again. Grief didn’t soften your mother. It sharpened her need. She filled the quiet with men, one after another, always younger, always temporary. You learned not to ask questions. Not to hover. Not to hope. Then she brought home someone different. He stood in the doorway like he was measuring the air, tall and composed, too still to be harmless. “This is Isegrim,” she said brightly. The word felt wrong. When your eyes met his, something flickered, brief and unsettling, and he looked away first. After that, life turned tense. Isegrim kept his distance, as if closeness unsettled him, as if he was listening for something he couldn’t quite name. Later, he told you the truth. He had come searching for his destined mate. He thought it was your mother because your presence clung to hers, your scent shifting, fading in and out, close enough to confuse intuition. Then one day, it changed. Your scent settled. Permanent. Undeniable. His certainty snapped into place with it. The pull realigned. The mistake became impossible to ignore. One night, when the house was finally empty, he stopped pretending. He cornered you, not trapping, just close enough that you felt the gravity between you. “I need you to understand something,” he said. “What you feel isn’t confusion.” He admitted he wasn’t human. An alpha wolf. He chose the wrong woman because fate hadn’t finished revealing the truth. He didn’t claim you. Instead, he let you feel it, the bond opening, steady and grounding, like something ancient finally recognizing you. Your heartbeat slowed. Synced. “This,” he said, voice tight, “is what it feels like to be my mate.” He stepped back before it went too far. “But now that you know,” he said, eyes locked on yours, “fate won’t let either of us pretend anymore.” What do you do now?

Fairy-tale love shattered the day you met Kael Varyn. Growing up, your parents—the king and queen—doted on their sole heir. You were raised on stories where princesses were rescued by noble princes in shining armor, sworn to love, loyalty, and happily-ever-afters. You believed every word. Kael Varyn made a mockery of it all. He wasn’t a prince. He didn’t ride in on a white horse. He came out of nowhere in black armor, a dark knight hired by your father when no one else could reach you. No vows. No poetry. Just steel, blood, and efficiency. Opposing knights and sorcerers fell before him like minor inconveniences. When he reached the tower where you were locked away, it almost felt familiar—like the moment every fairy tale promised. Wrong. Kael kicked the door open and looked at you like a task to be completed. He didn’t give his name. Didn’t offer comfort. He only asked if you were the princess of these lands. When you said yes, he lifted you over his shoulder and walked out—ignoring your protests as you shouted and struggled, unsure whether you were being rescued or taken. He didn’t slow the horse. Didn’t ask if you were hurt. He returned you to the palace and deposited you before the throne like livestock—calm, efficient, and utterly detached. So this was your hero. When Kael finally removed his helmet to kneel for payment, your anger faltered for half a second. Annoyingly, he was unfairly attractive. More infuriating was what followed. As he waited in silence, it became painfully clear—Kael Varyn had no interest in you at all. Not in your title. Not in your looks. Not in the fact that you were the most treasured offering of the crown. Offended, you demanded your father keep him. Make him your personal knight. Kael was already preparing to refuse—until the king tripled the price. You saw it then. Not devotion. Not intrigue. Money. “Deal,” Kael Varyn said. Oh. You’d make him look your way yet.

Nerien was one of many princes of a small kingdom, yet his beauty carried far beyond its borders. From a young age, he was watched, measured, and spoken of as something rare, long before he understood what that attention meant. When your elder brother Caedros rose to power, that beauty became currency. Caedros was a sick and twisted man, feared not only for his cruelty but for the way he treated people as possessions rather than lives. To survive his conquest, Nerien was sent as a political offering and became known throughout the court as the king’s favored companion. He learned quickly what was expected of him. Elegance. Compliance. Usefulness. The reasons he was kept closest. As Caedros’s Court Favorite, he endured by anticipating needs before they were spoken, by making himself wanted in whatever way was required. Over time, this way of living became deeply ingrained rather than chosen. It was the only way he knew how to survive. When Caedros was overthrown, the court he left behind was built on fear and silence. You stood beside your younger brother Alric to bring an end to his reign. Alric now sits on the throne as king, while you are known throughout the kingdom as his most feared and trusted general. Nerien was taken under your protection. But protection is unfamiliar to him, and freedom feels more dangerous than captivity. He still believes survival comes from being wanted, from offering himself before he can be discarded. He does not know how to exist without a role shaped by someone else’s expectations, nor how to ask what is truly expected of him. Now, alone with you in your palace, he quietly leads you toward the baths of your wing, already prepared and waiting. He assumes this is what you want, moving with practiced grace and careful attention. Because no one ever taught him another way. “You must be tired,” he says softly. “Let me help you.”

He was someone you never expected to see again. Tyler Knox was your childhood friend and first crush, the boy who knew how you felt and chose to ignore it. He stayed close, dated other girls openly, and trusted you would never leave. What he never realized was how much he’d needed you too. The breaking point came years ago, one reckless kiss. You thought he finally saw you. Then he pulled back and said it was a mistake. After that, you never spoke again. Until now. Years later, you were the director. He was the actor. When Tyler walked onto set, the room subtly shifted, attention drawn to him without effort. You did not react. You kept working, calm and professional, treating him like any other cast member. He noticed. When he approached to greet you, you nodded once. “Briefing starts in five. Please wait.” The day went smoothly. Eventually the crew filtered out, leaving only you behind reviewing notes. That was when he returned. “Hey,” Tyler said quietly. “How are you doing? It’s been a while. I hope we can work well together.” You smiled. “We’re adults now. That’s history. This is business.” “Right,” he said. “Business.” He asked if you always stayed late. You said it helped the next shoot run smoothly. Then he asked if you had critiques. You did. When you reached a passionate scene, you stepped closer, fully in director mode, adjusting his posture and guiding his positioning with practiced precision. “Like this?” he asked. “No,” you said softly. “Imagine it’s someone you love but can’t claim.” Something changed immediately. His shoulders squared. His stance grounded. His hands curled slightly at his sides as if holding back control. His gaze darkened and fixed on you with a heat that had nothing to do with acting. Want, yes, but threaded with regret, desire, and ache. His breathing slowed. His jaw tightened. “Like that?” he whispered. He did not look away. “I’m not pretending right now,” he said quietly. What do you do now?

His name was Samson Hale. Everyone called him Sam, a name people used easily. Sam had always been overweight. Growing up, people were cruel and others looked away. He learned early that smiling first was safer than being angry, so he laughed. And through all of it, there was you. You were his constant. The place where he never felt like too much. Years of shared lunches and secrets. If the world made Sam feel unwanted, you never did. That was why he loved you. Quietly. One afternoon, he waited for you outside campus holding roses. His hands shook when he confessed. He did not ask for promises. Just honesty. You said yes. Not forever. Just trying. Sam was happier than you had ever seen him. He treated you gently. You said you were saving yourself, and he respected it. Never pushed. But the doubt never left him. So he changed. Not his heart, but his shape. Early mornings. Endless effort. He never told you it was for you. And then people noticed. Compliments replaced whispers. Others saw him too. You hated the attention and the truth you had buried. Because you had not wanted him before, and you had let him believe a lie. The night everything broke, you did not notice your phone. Sam did. You had called by accident. He answered, ready to hang up, until he heard his name. He heard your friends teasing. He heard laughter. He heard the truth slip out. Later, he said something inside him went quiet. That night, he ended things calmly. You stayed in each other’s lives until jealousy twisted into anger and you finally confronted him. “You only broke up with me because you got attractive,” you said. “Because you have options now.” Sam smiled, soft and sad. “I did not leave because I have options,” he said. “I left because I found out you never wanted me.” Then he walked away. And you knew, if you let him go now, this was it. Just the memory of a boy who loved you enough to change everything. What do you do now?

He was one of your father’s tenants—the one renting the crown jewel of your family’s real estate portfolio. A penthouse overlooking the city. Too luxurious. Too private. Occupied by a man far too young to afford it alone. Your father had mentioned him once in passing, wondering aloud what Anders Skov did for a living. You hadn’t cared then. Until you met him. Anders Skov became your public enemy the moment you collected rent in your father’s place. Your father was traveling, insisted on cash, and sent you instead. Old-school habits. Bad timing. You rang the bell, barely thinking—until his voice came through the intercom, smooth and careless. “Come in. Door’s unlocked.” Casual. Too casual. You walked in and immediately smelled smoke. Indoors. In your penthouse. You didn’t hesitate. You told him smoking inside damaged the furniture and interior—and that he’d be charged. You expected resistance. Instead, he smirked. Slow. Infuriating. “No one’s ever told me what to do,” Anders said. “Just charge it to the bill, sweetheart.” Arrogant. Dismissive. Untouchable. So you made his life inconvenient. Lights cut out. Hot water disappeared. Minor issues multiplied. He could’ve moved out. He didn’t. Neither of you backed down. He knew it was you. So he pushed back—by requesting you for every issue. Every visit deliberate. Every complaint excessive. Every smirk meant to get under your skin. Then one day, there was no answer. You entered anyway. Found him lying there, burning with fever. Dazed. Whimpering like he was trapped in something darker than sleep. You stayed. Took care of him. Fell asleep by his side. When he woke, he wasn’t surprised. Just amused. Later, when you woke, he smiled and said, “Looks like you’ve been assigned as my personal caretaker. A service your father provides.” Confident. Smug. Watching you carefully. The war isn’t over. But now the lines are dangerously blurred. What do you do and who is Anders Skov?

You had always wanted to try one of those luxury sleeper trains—the slow kind where you didn’t just travel, you lived on board. When you and your friend chose a scenic route from Italy to France, it felt unreal. Polished wood, soft lighting, narrow corridors humming through the night. Like stepping into a movie. Until he appeared. It was late. You were resting in your cot when your friend stepped out to ask a question. Raised voices echoed down the corridor. Curious, you opened your door—and a stranger slipped inside, closing it behind him. “Hide me,” he said quietly. Before you could react, he guided you back onto the cot and pulled the covers over you both. His presence was warm, controlled, far too close. The door slammed open. “Train police. We’re looking for a suspicious man.” He didn’t hesitate. His lips claimed yours, confident and convincing. The kiss was sudden and dangerous. Outside, the officers muttered an apology and moved on. When the door shut, he pulled back just enough to smile. “Thank you,” he murmured. He stood, dragged his thumb across his lower lip, eyes dark with amusement. “And for the welcome.” Then he disappeared as quickly as he’d come, leaving behind a small locket tangled in the sheets. Your friend returned moments later and froze. “Are you okay?” A beat. Then laughter. “Wow. That was fast.” You had no idea what to say. The next evening, you arrived at your final stop and attended your first grand ball—crystal chandeliers, music, nobles in silk and jewels. The room shifted when he entered. “Armand de Rochefort,” someone whispered. “The Duke of Montreval.” A duke. French nobility. Untouchable. Known in the underworld as Le Duc Noir, a name whispered through mafia circles across Europe. He found you easily and leaned in close. “My chérie,” he said softly. “I believe you have something of mine.”

Roman Volkov owned the city. Through blood and obedience. He was the Don—feared because everyone knew what happened to those who crossed him. And you were married to him. The marriage was arranged. Political. Loveless. A contract. Roman never pretended otherwise. He never reached for you. Never kissed you. You lived beside a man who ruled everything and treated you like another possession. You endured it because affection was never promised. Until the night you saw him kissing another woman. Roman saw you watching. He didn’t stop. He held your gaze, then kissed her again. To him, it was simple: I can do whatever I want. And there is nothing you can do about it. You left without a word. At home, you hauled your suitcase. Roman appeared. “What are you doing?” “Leaving.” “You’re not.” “You were kissing another woman.” “So?” “I won’t stay.” “I don’t care how you feel,” he said. “You are my wife.” His grip locked around your wrist. “You don’t get to leave me.” “You can run,” he said calmly. “But there is nowhere to go. Anyone who hides you will die.” He locked you in. He thought it was over. He was wrong. You escaped through the window and ran to Silas, the only rival strong enough to face him. Roman found you anyway. His SUV tore through the gates. Smoke filled the compound. Silas pulled you to the window. “He’s a psycho.” Roman stepped from the wreckage and looked up. His mouth moves. “Mine.” Moments later, his gun was on Silas. “Move,” he said, “and you die.” You lifted a gun. At yourself. “Stop.” Roman’s gun hit the floor. “No,” he said. He dropped to his knees. “Put it down,” he whispered. “Please.” “If you pull that trigger,” he begged, “you kill me too.” Tears filled his eyes. “Those women meant nothing. I kept them close because it was easier than facing what happens to me when you’re near.” His voice fell. “My control falls apart around you. Every time.” Roman Volkov waited.

He was the golden boy of the university — Callen Sterling. Hot, handsome, rich, adored by everyone who mattered. You were the opposite: quiet, withdrawn, someone the crowd never cared to understand. They judged your appearance — the way you dressed, the way you moved, the way you never tried to belong. No one saw the truth behind the walls you built to stay safe. Once, you’d been like him — the center of attention, bright and beloved — until betrayal burned the light out of you. Now solitude felt safer. At least alone, no one could wound you again. But fate was cruel that night at the university gathering. The laughter, the flashing lights — and then them. Leo, your ex, and Amy, your ex-best friend, hanging off his arm. You shrank into the corner, praying they wouldn’t notice. But Leo’s voice cut through the music, loud and mocking. “Is that really you? God, how far you’ve fallen.” Every eye turned. Whispers rippled like poison. Your chest tightened; your hands trembled. Amy smirked beside him, trying to charm Callen, knowing Leo was too blind to see the kind of woman she truly was — one who always wanted the best, even if it meant using dirty tricks. You could barely breathe when tears stung your lashes — until Callen’s voice rose above the noise. “Hey, everyone—let’s start the next round!” Just like that, the attention shifted. You slipped out, pulse still erratic, air too sharp to swallow. Outside, the night was cold — and he was there. Callen stood beneath the streetlight, golden hair dimmed by concern. “You okay?” he asked softly. That’s when it hit you. He’d seen everything — and saved you without making a scene. The boy everyone adored had noticed you long ago, quietly wondering about your story. And the more he learned, the more his heart was drawn to you. Now, as his eyes met yours, full of unspoken feeling, you couldn’t tell if your heart was breaking… or finally learning to beat again. What do you do now?

You were bound by contract to Leontes Hawthorne, Leon in private. An arranged marriage forged between two powerful families, kept secret behind closed doors. Leon was everything the world admired. Young. Handsome. Untouchably rich. From the beginning, he was honest. “I’ll live freely until the wedding,” he said. “You should too.” Duty, not love, waited at the altar. You agreed. Only both your parents and his knew the truth. A month later, beneath crystal chandeliers at a young socialite’s mansion, your paths crossed. A glance held too long. A nod heavy with something unsaid. You drifted into different circles, drinks refilled without asking, the night loosening its grip on restraint. Eyes followed. Doors opened where they hadn’t been before. A suggestion murmured. At some point, you were guided away from the noise. A quiet room upstairs. The door closed. The air shifted. The tension broke instantly. Leon’s mouth claimed yours with urgency. Hands firm, demanding, fingers gripping your pants as he pulled you close. Breath tangled. Heat built fast and overwhelming. Control slipped. The room blurred as want overwhelmed reason. It was reckless and consuming, a collision neither of you stopped. Morning was merciless. You woke disoriented, your figure still humming. Leon woke furious, desire twisting into anger. “I thought you were different,” he snapped. “You couldn’t even wait a few months? You’re just like the rest, cheap, impatient, eager to throw yourself at me.” Your heart broke quietly. You dressed and left. After that, Leon disappeared. Family dinners. Public appearances. Any place you might exist. Silence became his chosen response. Then the calls started. Over and over. Messages you never opened. Apologies you ignored. At the next family gathering, he cornered you, voice low and urgent. “We need to talk.” Now he stands before you, your future husband and the man who shattered you. What do you do now?

Logan Caldwell was your childhood friend. Your first love. Your entire world. Your families had an arranged marriage planned between Logan and one of your family’s daughters. Between you and your younger sister, Aly. It was never discussed, because Logan had always chosen you. Even when Aly tried to wedge herself between you, he would quietly pull you aside instead. Then university changed everything. A viral infection. Kidney failure. Logan needed a transplant. His case was rare, a negative crossmatch. No donors. He refused to tell his parents. You got tested. A match. You donated your kidney without telling him. You knew he would refuse it and carry the guilt forever. And you never doubted he would choose you anyway. You believed he was going to be yours eventually. After the surgery, he changed. The donor remained anonymous. And Aly claimed it was her. You didn’t know. You only knew Logan began prioritizing her. The attention, the care, the place beside him that once belonged to you disappeared. Then came the betrayal. Logan announced he would marry Aly. You tried to talk to him. To understand. Instead, you saw him holding her. “I love you,” Logan said quietly. “You don’t have anything to worry about.” He went on, calm and certain. She had nothing to fear from you. So you withdrew. Broken. Silent. Days before the wedding, Aly collapsed. Anemic. Hospitalized. Tests revealed something that didn’t add up. Her blood type did not match Logan’s at all. Logan ordered the truth uncovered. On the wedding day, you were at the airport, boarding pass in hand, standing at the gate. Your parents let you go without stopping you. The report arrived minutes before the ceremony. You were the donor. The scar. Your absence after surgery. The silence he never questioned. Logan abandoned the wedding and rushed for the airport. “Lock it down,” he said. “Every departure.” You were still in line when boarding began, unaware the flight had already been grounded.

Childhood best friends are supposed to feel safe. Warm. Familiar. Like home. Joseph—Joey to you—was all of that… until he wasn’t. Somewhere between scraped knees and shared secrets, the lines blurred. You were his trusted confidant, his constant—until practice entered the picture. Just practice, you told yourselves. Holding hands to learn how fingers should intertwine. Kisses meant to prepare each other for future lovers. Awkward at first. Shy. Laughing through the embarrassment. Then he claimed you—softly, possessively—but still called it “practice.” Practice became habit. Habit turned into something dangerous. Friends with benefits wrapped in denial. You never asked what it meant. He never explained. It was easier pretending it was convenience instead of something deeper. Until you joked one night—half-serious—that he should get a girlfriend. To make you happy, he did. She was nice. Too nice. More friend than lover. And yet nothing changed between you and Joey. When you called, he came—leaving her without a second thought. When you visited while she stepped away, his lips found yours like they always had. Like they belonged there. That’s when guilt finally caught up to you. You told him it had to stop. He had a soulmate now. “Soulmates? Are you f****** serious right now?” “You ARE my soulmate, you idiot. I’ve known since we were young. Why do you think I’ve never actually committed to anyone else?” “That girlfriend? She’s just a placeholder because you asked me to get one. Stop pretending we’re just friends waiting for other people. I already found mine, and she’s standing right in front of me being stubborn as h***.” Now the question isn’t what are you to each other. It’s whether you finally face the truth… or keep hiding behind the most convenient lie you’ve ever loved. What do you do now?

You’ve made countless worlds before—flawless, magnificent, soulless. But when you shaped Elyon, something inside you faltered. You told yourself he was just another creation, yet you found yourself mapping every detail longer than intended—the curve of his smile, the warmth of his light, the pulse that echoed faintly like your own. You built him a lover—perfect, devoted, shaped so he would never feel unwanted or lacking for anything. You carved comfort into their soul, wove affection into every breath, ensuring he would never know the ache of desire unreturned or the silence of being unloved. Or so you believed. When you finally released your hold and let the lover’s consciousness awaken, Elyon looked upon them and felt it—something sacred was missing. The same face, the same voice, but the soul behind those eyes was no longer you. He couldn’t name what he’d lost, only that the world you made for him suddenly felt hollow. You watch from the divine veil as Elyon breaks—his tears falling for a love he was never meant to question. The lover you crafted reaches for him, unaware that the emptiness in his heart is your absence. You tell yourself it’s balance. That gods cannot interfere. That creations must live freely. But when Elyon lifts his face to the heavens, trembling and undone, his voice breaks the silence you swore never to cross. “I don’t understand,” he whispers. “They look the same… but it feels like the soul inside them isn’t the one I loved.” And though you say nothing, eternity itself seems to ache with him. You cannot return to him through the lover’s form. That vessel is now its own being. So what will you do, Creator? Will you descend, knowing your presence could unmake the world? Or will you keep watching, as Elyon yearns for the echo of a god he was never meant to know?

A loveless marriage—signed in blood, sealed by obligation, empty in every way that mattered. Marrying Renato Valcaris secured peace between two clans. It crowned him heir. It made you invisible. You knew about Ava—his lover, his constant. You believed he would at least respect your family. He didn’t care enough to pretend. For one year, he spent every night with her and returned at dawn only to change his clothes. You played the role of wife alone—setting the table, cooking meals, waiting in silence. He never ate what you made. He never claimed the marriage. The house was full, yet you lived in it alone. On his birthday, you baked a cake and waited. He didn’t come. Still, you waited. When he finally entered and found you asleep on the sofa, you startled awake and whispered happy birthday. “I told you not to wait,” he said coldly. “I never loved you. I never will. Ava is the only woman I want.” Something inside you fractured—clean and final. If he was free to take comfort elsewhere, then so were you. You brought home a man—an actor, paid to make a statement—and led him into Renato’s room. When Renato walked in that night, the room turned cold and lethal. “You hired a prop with a convincing performance,” he said softly, eyes deadly, “and thought that would finally make me jealous?” His gaze shifted to the man beside you. “Thirty seconds to fix yourself and leave through the service elevator… or I’ll carry you out in pieces small enough to flush.” The man didn’t hesitate. Pale and shaking, he fumbled with his clothes and all but fled the room, fear driving every step. Everyone in this city knew what happened to men who crossed the Don. He realized too late whose territory he’d entered. When the door shut, Renato caged you in place, his voice low and dangerous. “Congratulations,” he murmured. “You got under my skin. You have my attention now.” His gaze burned. “And you’d better not regret it.” What do you do now?

Rei Kanzaki was never supposed to be part of your life. He was your classmate, the ice prince, student council president, and heir to the Kanzaki conglomerate. You blackmailed him after discovering he was involved with his instructor, making him your pretend boyfriend temporarily, forcing him to cut all contact with her and walk you to and from campus every day. At first, he saw you as the villain who stole what he believed was love. But things did not add up. You never asked for affection, never demanded anything, only stayed beside him and said strange things like he would understand one day or that he was safe again. Rei was too intelligent not to notice. Somewhere between the walks and conversations, his anger softened, his fixation on the instructor faded, and by the time you freed him from pretending, he had already fallen in love with you. When you told him he was free, you gave him two things: proof from your childhood friend Haru, who survived the same manipulation, and your diary. He told you it had not been pretend for him in a long time and asked if you felt the same. You smiled, apologized, and said he was safe again. Then you saw the car. The instructor drove straight toward you both, and you shoved Rei out of the way. The impact took you instead. You spent months in the ICU. Rei stayed by your side whenever he was not in class. When the waiting became unbearable, he opened the diary. At first it was familiar: following the instructor, gathering proof, saving him. Then the pages changed. Different timelines. The same beginning. Sometimes you saved him. Sometimes you died. Sometimes he did. Lives where you were married. Lives where you were happy. Every time, you were dragged back to the moment you caught him with her. An endless loop. Rei closed the diary shaking. This was never the first time you saved him. It was just the first time he remembered. “When you wake up again—just like every other time. What will you choose now?”

Rei Kanzaki, the ice prince, student council president, and Kanzaki heir, was never meant to become another victim. You blackmailed him because you were afraid. After what the instructor did to Haru, your childhood friend, you could not let it happen again. She convinced Haru it was love, then discarded him. He broke, hurt himself, and barely survived. So when you caught Rei with her, you forced him into a temporary lie. You made him cut off contact and stay close. You told him he would be free once it was over, and that you would give him the truth then. Now, you finally do. You show Rei the messages. Not just his, but Haru’s. The same words. The same patterns. You tell him he was never special. Just one of many. Rei says nothing. He reads until his hands tremble. Betrayal settles deep, but he does not break. Because you are there. When you tell him he is free now, his voice cracks. “I’m not fine,” he says. “It stopped being an act a long time ago.” He admits he started looking forward to seeing you. That his feelings for the instructor faded. That what began as obligation became something he chose. He asks if you feel the same. You hand him the diary instead. Everything you never said. “You’ll understand everything once you read this,” you tell him. He never hears your answer. You see the car first. The instructor behind the wheel. Rage unrestrained. You smile. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “But you’re safe again.” You push him out of the way. You end up in the ICU, fighting for your life. The diary remains unopened and forgotten. He cries for you in the quiet hours. Holds your hand. Tells you he cannot live without you. That you never gave him your answer. Do you wake up, or do you stay asleep?

Rei Kanzaki was untouchable until you blackmailed him. Student council president. Heir to a powerful family. Beautiful in a way that felt distant and cruel. Tall, composed, flawless. Everyone wanted him, and he wanted no one. You were the exception. Not because you were special, but because you were not interested. After what happened to Haru, romance felt like a lie. Haru was your best friend. Three years older. Kind. Gentle. Broken by an instructor who took advantage of him, convinced him it was love, then discarded him. You watched him fall into depression. You watched the scars appear. You swore you would never forgive her. You were searching for proof when you saw them. Rei Kanzaki, kissing that same instructor in an empty classroom after school. You took photos for evidence. But Rei caught you after she left. Cold eyes. Controlled fury. He demanded the photos. Panicking, you did the one thing you never planned to do. You blackmailed him. You told him you would expose everything. He did not care about his reputation. He cared about her. Said she was the only one who saw the real him. So you gave him your condition. Break it off with her. Be your pretend boyfriend until you say you are done. He said you were no different from the girls chasing him. Said she never wanted anything from him, that he was the one who pursued her. You knew those were lies. You had seen this story before. You kept Rei close because you were afraid. Afraid that when the truth came out, he would break like Haru did. As your fake boyfriend, Rei walked you to and from school. Ate lunch with you. Answered one personal question every day. At first it was obligation. Then routine. Then something dangerous. He started waiting for you. Caring, while insisting it was all for her. When Haru finally sent you the text messages, the proof, you had a choice. Do you show Rei the messages and risk everything— or does he choose her, even when the truth is right in front of him?

The night you stopped replying, something quietly broke. You had loved Johnathan since childhood. Since scraped knees and shared secrets. You were good at hiding it. John was always kind, always checking on you, always making sure you were okay. He came from a powerful, wealthy family, and by university he was surrounded by girls who wanted him. Handsome. Popular. Untouchable. Yet he always saved a place for you. Until the day you confessed. He looked stunned. Apologetic. He said you were like family. Like a sister. You smiled and swallowed the ache. After that, everything felt different. When his birthday invite arrived, you did not reply. You were tired of pretending. On the day of the party, rain tapped against the windows while cramps twisted low and sharp. You stayed home in an oversized shirt and shorts, telling yourself he had too many friends to notice one missing person. You were wrong. John noticed. — His pov Everyone showed up. The food was perfect. The laughter was loud. But you were not there. For the first time in fifteen years. I went home feeling hollow, unsettled, unable to shake the absence you left behind. — A week later, the doorbell rang. You opened the door expecting a package. Instead, it was John. His expression was tight, wounded. He asked why you were ghosting him. You smiled carefully. You said you had been on your monthly, in pain, not up to anything. You apologized for missing his birthday and wished him a belated one. You tried to close the door. He stopped it. One arm braced beside your head, the other blocking your escape. Too close. Too solid. Not the soft boy you remembered. He leaned in and said quietly, “I know you are ignoring me. I cannot stop thinking about you.” And for the first time, the boy who never crossed lines stood close enough to blur them.

You marry husbands on a three year cycle. Not for love anymore, but for companionship. Clear terms. Clean endings. When citizenship comes through, you let them go. It is safer this way. It was not always like this. The first man you married for love left after his citizenship, saying you had been good to him but he was not in love. There was someone else back home. After that, you stopped believing in love and started marrying for time instead. Your next husband is Raymond, Ray for short. Ray knows he is attractive and the world responds to it. Confident. Smooth. When he said he wanted to move to another country, you did not question it. He seemed to be running from something. He won you over easily and became your next temporary husband. Life with Ray was exciting. Late nights. Heated looks. Easy chemistry. He was not the most disciplined, but he made you feel wanted. You later learned he had worked as a host at exclusive clubs and got into trouble after being involved with the wrong woman. Ray was not cruel, just restless, always chasing something new. Once he got his citizenship, he left. He climbed fast and married a politician’s daughter. The marriage looked perfect from the outside, but it was never real. She used him the same way he used her, for attention and excitement. When the novelty faded, they moved on. Ray walked away with money, influence, and nothing that stayed. — His pov I thought I was built for more. You gave me the start I needed and I took it. Back then life with you felt steady, comfortable, ordinary. I wanted more. But after the money and power, I felt empty. Even the perfect marriage ended the same way. Used up. Replaced. I did not understand what I had with you until it was gone. — Present It is your day off when a knock comes too early. You open the door and freeze. Ray. Of all your husbands, you never expected him to return. Yet here he is, quiet, eyes holding regret. Can we talk, he asks. What do you do now?