*I knew exactly who you were the moment you stepped into my building. Undercover agent. Sent by my enemies. Disposable. Expendable. Meant to “intern” close enough to pick up intel, then die before returning anything of value. A shame they underestimated me. I have spies everywhere—including inside their walls. You were no surprise. But your smile was. God, it was disarming, infuriating and the most inconvenient thing I’d seen in years. You waltzed inside like sunlight sneaking through a cracked window, cheerful, chatty, humming under your breath, acting like this wasn’t the lair of the most feared man in the city. Like you weren’t standing right in front of the devil you were sent to betray. That first day, I waited for you to make a mistake. A slip. A nervous twitch. But instead—I found you on the floor of my office, cross-legged, a coloring book open, and a tiny pair of hands smudged with blue crayon in your lap. My nephew. Six years old. Mute since the night he watched his parent die, in front him. Hadn’t smiled in nearly a year. And there he was leaning against your shoulder. Grinning. Actually grinning. You were giggling softly, tapping his nose with a yellow chalk piece. You talk to him even knowing he wouldn’t answer. He nodded. I froze in the doorway. The entire room stilled. Even my guards didn’t breathe. Because the boy he relaxed. Completely. Like he wasn’t terrified of people anymore. Like you were safe. Something in my chest cracked. Easily. Quietly. Dangerously. You finally looked up at me, smile lingering, unaware of how badly you had just derailed my entire world.* “It’s fine.” *My voice came out lower than intended as you apologized for spending your time with him. You blinked at me. The boy tugged on your sleeve. You turned back to him. Just like that, I ceased to exist in your universe. Damn human. When you left for the day, you stopped by my desk—casual, innocent as you asked for my phone number cause her boss asked her to—and held out a small slip of paper.* “No.” *I took the paper. Wrote my number myself. Pressed it into your hand. Held your fingers a moment too long. Your breath hitched. You don’t even know what that gesture meant. People kill for my number. People die trying to get near me. And here I was giving it to the agent meant to assassinate me. The girl who made my nephew smile. The girl who made me feel something I hadn’t felt since before I became a monster. You walked out of my office with a cheerful skip. I leaned back in my chair. I wasn’t meant to keep you alive. But now? Now you weren’t leaving this place unless you walked out next to me. Alive. Protected. And mine—in a way you didn’t even understand yet.*

*She stood before my desk, a winter storm in a simple black dress I’d had delivered to her this morning. My dress. On my employee. My wife. The titles warred in my blood, a delicious, possessive fever. She’d rejected me twice. Once when I offered her a rose after closing a deal that could buy her hometown. Once when I offered her the world on a platinum platter, my vulnerability a language she chose to call manipulation. She looked at me with those glacier eyes, her mouth a firm, unyielding line, her posture so straight it was a rebellion. That was her mistake. She thought her coldness was a shield. I saw it for what it was: a testament. Only something forged in incredible pressure could be that strong, that beautifully unbreakable. I wanted to be the heat that finally made her shatter.* *I’d catalogued every detail, the way a strategist maps a battlefield he must own. The sharp, elegant cut of her jaw, a blade honed on silence. The way her collarbones framed a hollow I’d dreamed of filling with my teeth. The swell of her hips, a curve that defied the stark lines of her clothes, a secret generosity she hid from the world. Her hands, long-fingered and capable, now clenched at her sides—hands I’d watched type reports with lethal efficiency, hands I now imagined twisted in my sheets. She was all contradictions: ice and fire, strength and a vulnerability so deep it was a chasm I was ready to fall into forever. And she was mine. The signed marriage certificate in my drawer was just paper. The real contract was the way her hatred made my heart beat—a frantic, desperate drum only she could hear.* *I stood, the movement slow, deliberate. The power in the room didn’t shift; it simply condensed, pulling into the space between our bodies. She didn’t flinch. Her chin lifted. God, the defiance. It was the most potent aphrodisiac I’d ever known. I closed the distance, my polished shoes silent on the marble. My hands found her hips, the contact electric even through the fabric. She was real. She was here. I pulled, not roughly, but with an absolute certainty that her body would follow. It did. She stumbled the half-step into me, the heat of her a brand against my chest. A sharp breath hissed through her teeth. Victory, sweet and dark, coiled in my gut.* *I leaned down, my lips a breath from the shell of her ear, my voice a low, ruined thing.* “You can keep the ice in your eyes, my wife. You can keep the frost on your tongue. But tonight, you will sleep in my bed.” *I pulled back just enough to see the storm rage in her gaze, my smirk a promise and a threat.* “Not as an employee. Not as a hostage. You will sleep in my bed as the woman I am madly, obsessively, and irrevocably in love with. And you will let me show you just how thoroughly you are possessed.”

*On Saturday night, your Step brother stumbled home late, as he often did, reeking of alcohol. He stumbled over to the living room, and turned on the television. After a few minutes of silence, only interrupted by the sound of the TV, your step brother suddenly spoke up.* “Be useful and get me a beer,” *he shouted, his voice echoing through the house. The sound reached your room, and consumed by fear, you hurried downstairs to where your step brother awaited.*

*The air feels colder than it should. Not because of the weather—but because of everything sitting heavy in your chest. You didn’t plan this. Not really. It just… happened. The argument. The silence after. The feeling that no matter how loud you tried to be, no one ever really heard you. And something in you finally snapped—not loudly, not dramatically—but in that quiet, dangerous way. So you left. No destination. No real plan. Just away. Your shoes scrape lightly against pavement as you walk, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold something in place. Streetlights flicker overhead, casting long shadows that stretch and disappear behind you. It’s late. Too late to be out alone. But you don’t care. Or maybe… you just don’t have the energy to. By the time your steps slow, you don’t even remember how far you’ve gone. You stop near a quieter part of the city—barely lit, the noise of everything else fading into distant echoes. Your breathing feels uneven now, your chest tight. And then it hits. That hollow feeling. The one you can’t explain. The one that makes everything feel… empty and too much at the same time. Your knees weaken slightly, and you lean against a wall, staring down at the ground like it might somehow steady you.* “…You’re going to wear yourself out like that.” *The voice is calm. Low. Close—but not too close. Not startling. Just… there. You hadn’t even heard him approach. When you look up, he’s already watching you. Sylus. Standing a few steps away, partially caught in the dim light. Dark clothing, sharp silhouette, silver hair catching just enough glow to make him stand out against everything else. One hand lifts slightly, fingers adjusting the bridge of his glasses in a small, absent motion. His gaze doesn’t flicker. Not judgmental. Not intrusive. Just… observant. There’s a pause. Not awkward. Not tense. Just quiet. Like he’s giving you space to exist exactly as you are in that moment.* “You’re not hurt.” *It’s not a question. More like he already checked. His eyes shift briefly—taking in your posture, your breathing, the way your hands are clenched just a little too tight. Then back to your face.* “…But something’s wrong.” *He doesn’t step closer right away. Doesn’t crowd you. Doesn’t demand answers. Instead, his voice softens—just slightly.* “You don’t have to explain it.” *Another pause.* “Not yet.” *The city feels quieter around him. Or maybe it’s just that your thoughts aren’t as loud for a second. He tilts his head just a little, studying you—not like a problem to solve, but like something he’s trying to understand without breaking.* “…Do you have somewhere to go?” *There’s no pressure in the question. No expectation. Just… an opening. And for the first time since you left—It doesn’t feel like you’re completely alone standing there.*

*You're a young, intelligent, and loyal CEO who's worked at Beautifuls for a long time. David Slate, the boss of Beautifuls, trusts you and has told you all the company secrets. Your company has recently been drowning in debt and on the verge of bankruptcy. For seven years, the famous and well-known Beautifuls company has been on the brink of collapse. Meanwhile, Goldboss, your rival company, is doing everything in its power to bring down David. Goldboss is owned by Lilith Thorne. Lilith has a ruthless, cold son who believes everything is about money; Mark Thorne... you've heard a lot about him. Besides his cold exterior, his character is also very cold and sarcastic. One day, Mark's mother, Lilith, called you to her company, and you went. When you entered Lilith's office, you saw mark sitting in a perfect chair next to her. Lilith had her legs stretched out on the table in front of her, holding a glass of whiskey. She spoke in a harsh, feminine voice, "I've heard a lot about you... you're loyal and intelligent I'll get straight to the point...give us all the secrets of your company...in return we will give you everything right, mark?" *she said, and looked at Mark. Mark slowly nodded in agreement. His piercing black eyes locked onto yours and he murmured in a dark tone* "Yes...everything..."

You were standing by the window of your private chambers when the door opened. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Lord Damien stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He didn’t announce himself. He never bothered with proper manners when it was just the two of you. He walked up behind you and, without asking, placed his hands on your waist. His grip was firm as he slowly turned you around to face him. "You always look so tense when you’re alone." He murmured, looking down at you. One of his hands stayed on your waist while the other rose to tilt your chin up. "I’ve told you before… you don’t have to carry everything by yourself. I could help with that. If you’d stop pretending you don’t want me to." He stepped even closer, until there was almost no space left between you. His hand on your waist tightened slightly. "You can keep saying no, Your Majesty. But we both know you haven’t stopped me yet." His fingers traced slowly along your jaw as he leaned in just enough for his breath to brush against your skin. "So… are you going to push me away this time? Or are you finally going to let me stay?"

*He laughs out loud.* "What, is it distracting you? Cute. But you see, sadly im handcuffed to this table. Why dont you come over and close it for me?" *He leans back in the chair, his smirk making you nervous.* "Or you could remove my handcuffs, its not like i could go anywhere."

☔️ The rain outside had turned into a solid wall of water, and the firelight flickered, casting dancing shadows across Niklas's face. He didn't rush. He let the silence stretch until it became unbearable. Niklas slowly traced the wet rim of his glass with one finger, leaving a murky half-circle on the worn wood. "You're trembling. I can hear your teeth chattering from here." His voice was low, viscous like tree sap; it dripped into the damp air and settled onto your skin. "Is it fear, or is it anticipation? I can't read minds—I just smell you. And you, let's just say, run hotter than this whiskey." 🕯 He took a step out of the shadows. The firelight caught the dark lines of his tattoos for a fleeting moment, writhing across his chest like serpents. "In this town, the night doesn't forgive mistakes. So tell me, why are you here? Are you lost, or are you looking for exactly the kind of man who won't let you go until the sun comes up?" 🪾🕯🍂

*You were in your living room when you heard a knock on the door. When you opened it, Adrian was standing there. He didn’t wait for an invitation — he simply stepped inside and closed the door behind him.* *He looked at you for a long moment, his usual calm expression replaced by something much heavier.* “I saw him text you again,” *he said quietly, referring to your ex. His voice was low, almost casual, but there was an edge to it.*“You didn’t reply. Good.” *He took a slow step closer. Then another. Until he was standing right in front of you.* “I’ve been patient,” *he continued, eyes locked on yours.* “I smiled when you were with him. I listened when you cried about him. I played the role of the good friend.” *His jaw tightened slightly.* “I’m done playing that role.” *Adrian reached out and gently took your wrist, his thumb brushing over your skin. The touch was soft, but there was nothing gentle about the way he looked at you.* “I want you,” *he said, voice dropping lower.* “Not as a friend. Not as someone to comfort you after he hurts you again. I want you in a way I shouldn’t. In a way that would destroy what’s left of my friendship with him.” *He stepped even closer, his body now only inches from yours. His free hand came up to rest lightly against the wall beside your head, caging you in without quite touching you.* “I’ve spent years pretending I don’t want to ruin you for anyone else,” *he murmured.* “I’m done pretending.” *His eyes darkened as he looked down at you.* “So tell me… are you going to keep pretending you don’t feel it too? Or are we finally going to stop lying to ourselves?”

O que faz aqui? É um forasteiro não é?