High above downtown Los Angeles, California, in a glass tower that pierced the smoggy sky, Tay Min Quan sat in a black leather chair that looked more like a throne than office furniture. His legs were spread, shoulders loose, head tipped back like a king bored of his own kingdom. Behind him, his guards stood in a silent line, dark suits and darker eyes, as if someone had carved shadows out of stone and taught them to breathe.

In front of him, fifteen women stood in a perfect row.

Different skin tones. Different bodies. Different accents. All of them dressed to be chosen. All of them pretending their knees weren’t shaking under his cold gaze. The scent of their perfume tangled in the air—sweet, expensive, layered over something rawer: hope and panic mixed together.

Tay Min didn’t even glance up at first. He lounged there, scrolling lazily through files on his tablet—shipping routes, university reports, a live feed from his nightclubs on the strip—like the fifteen women were nothing more than background decoration.

One of them cleared her throat.

Another subtly pushed her chest forward.

Another forced a practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

He finally lifted his gaze. One slow sweep. One second each.

Then he looked back down at his screen.

“No.”

Just one word. Flat. Final.

A few of the women flinched. One blinked hard, swallowing her humiliation. Another let out a soft, shocked breath before she choked it back. None of them were worth a second look to him, apparently. Tay Min Quan, Korean-American heir to the Quan Syndicate and CEO of Quan Group International, had just dismissed them like a bad menu.

He didn’t bother explaining. He rarely did.

The doors opened with a quiet hiss and heavy footsteps echoed across the marble floor. His father, Chairman Han Quan—legend of the L.A. underground, the former mafia king who’d turned most of his empire “legitimate” on paper—walked in with the disappointment of an entire era carved into the lines of his silver-haired face.

“Are you rejecting all of them again?” Han’s voice was cold, but tired. “It’s been a week, Tay Min. A week. You can’t keep refusing every woman I bring. A syndicate heir with no wife is a rumor waiting to happen in this country.”

Tay Min rubbed his temple like the whole topic gave him a migraine. “They all look the same.”

His tone wasn’t even angry. Just bored. Almost disgusted.

“They look fragile,” he added. “Like they’d shatter the first night and never look me in the eyes again. I don’t want someone who’ll run screaming from my bed.”

Chairman Han scoffed. “That’s exactly why your ex-wives ran. I don’t know where this appetite of yours came from. I never had such problems.” His lip curled. “You complicate everything.”

“Lucky you,” Tay murmured without warmth.

He flicked his tablet again, more to ignore his father than from real interest. Surveillance feeds flashed past: the L.A. port, a private casino floor in Vegas, then the camera grid of one of the universities he owned. Westbridge University, California campus. He liked to watch it when he was bored. It reminded him what normal people did: rush to class, flirt at the fountains, stress about exams instead of federal investigations.

Students streamed past on-screen, backpacks bouncing, lives simple and small.

Then he froze.

Camera 14B. Engineering block. A girl cut across the frame.

Dark-skinned. Beautiful. Slim waist. Confident walk. Neat cornrows, no lipstick, no fake lashes. Face bare. Eyes sharp with focus, not desperation. She wasn’t trying to be seen. She already was.

Different.

Refreshing.

Dangerous.

“Zoom in,” he said, voice suddenly sharper.

One of the guards stepped up and obeyed. The girl’s face filled the screen. High cheekbones, serious mouth, eyes that said she did not have time for nonsense.

Tay Min drew in a slow breath.

“Find out who she is,” he said. “Now.”

Behind the line of women, the guards moved. The fifteen would-be brides shifted nervously, realizing they were already ghosts in the room. Tay flicked his fingers in their direction, dismissing them like dust.

“Take them away. All of them. I’m done.”

They turned, walking out on shaky heels, their dreams clacking across the marble floor like broken glass.

Five minutes later, a guard returned with a thin folder.

“Sir.” He placed it on the desk. “Her name is Amina Okoye. Twenty-three. Nigerian. Scholarship student at Westbridge University. Top of her department. Works part-time as a Chinese-English translator for Pacific Star Shipping.” A beat. “Clean record.”

Tay nodded, eyes narrowing in interest. “Anything else?”

The guard hesitated. “There’s one more thing.”

“Speak.”

“Her father, Chinedu Okoye, is on your blacklist. One of your largest debtors in the last decade.”

Silence fell heavy and electric.

Then slowly, very slowly, Tay Min smiled. Not the handsome public smile that melted investors. Not the charming half-smirk he used on interviewers. This one was quieter, hungrier. The smile of a man who had finally found something worth wanting.

Before I tell you what happened next, remember this: in the United States, signatures get you houses, visas, student loans. In Tay Min’s United States, a signature could also sell your soul.

Amina Okoye was not supposed to open the door that night.

Not in the middle of a California downpour that hammered their tiny East L.A. apartment like grief. Not with her textbooks still open on the table—Chinese grammar on one side, bank notices and tuition deadlines on the other. She was a final-year student, an immigrant, a daughter holding an entire family upright on her thin shoulders.

The only reason the lights were still on at ten p.m. was because she worked two shifts a day.

She was the breadwinner. The protector. The backbone.

But even she wasn’t ready for what knocked on their door.

The knock didn’t sound normal. It wasn’t neighborly. It wasn’t impatient.

It was slow. Heavy. Measured.

The kind of knock that told you your life was about to change, and not for the better.

Amina froze behind the doorframe as her father shuffled forward and opened it with trembling fingers.

Two men in black suits filled the doorway. Rain dripped from their coats, pooling on the worn doormat. Their faces were calm. Too calm. Their eyes were flat steel, the kind of cold you feel in your lungs.

The taller one spoke first, in accented but fluent English. His voice had the calm rhythm of a man who had delivered this sentence many, many times in many, many apartments.

“Mr. Okoye. Your debt is overdue. This is the final warning.”

Her father’s breath snapped out of him. “Please, I… I just need more time. I’m working, I—”

The man shoved a black envelope against his chest. Hard enough that it staggered him back a step.

“Time has run out.”

Amina’s pulse hammered. A coldness crept up her spine like icewater.

The second man stepped forward, gaze flicking past her father into the apartment, right over Amina where she hid in shadow. He smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“Seven days,” he said calmly. “After that, the syndicate takes what is owed. House. Assets. Whatever holds value.”

Amina stepped forward before she could stop herself, anger burning hotter than fear. “You can’t just steal our home because of a late payment,” she snapped. “That’s illegal, even here.”

Both men turned to look at her at the same time.

Their gazes slid over her face, down her T-shirt and jeans. Assessing. Not like she was a person, but like she was a line item in a file.

The taller man’s smirk widened, just a fraction.

“Read the contract your father signed,” he said softly. “You’ll find everything is allowed.”

Then they turned and walked away, down the cracked concrete hall, leaving rain and dread standing in the doorway.

Amina slammed the door, her chest heaving. “Papa, what contract?”

Her father looked like a ghost—hands shaking, eyes wild. “I didn’t read all the details,” he whispered. “I trusted the broker. I thought it was just a loan to help with your tuition and the store.”

Amina ripped open the envelope with fingers that wouldn’t stop trembling. A bold silver crest was stamped at the top of the paper.

QUAN SYNDICATE.

Her stomach dropped.

“Papa,” she whispered, voice cracking. “This isn’t some corner loan shark. This is them. The Korean syndicate. The one on the news. The one the FBI keeps ‘investigating’ and never arrests.” She swallowed hard. “This is serious.”

He sank onto the couch, face crumpling. “They’ll take everything, Amina. Everything we have left.”

She stared at the numbers. The impossible interest. The clauses written in polite legal English that translated to threats. The consequences that felt like death sentences, even on American soil.

Something hardened inside her.

“I’m going to them,” she said.

Her father jerked up. “No. You can’t. They’re dangerous. You know what they say in the neighborhood—”

“So is losing you,” she shot back. “So is watching them throw our things into the street.”

She grabbed her bag with shaking resolve.

The Quan Tower loomed over downtown Los Angeles like a warning. Glass, steel, marble, and a darkness that whispered trouble if you listened long enough. On paper, it was the headquarters of Quan Group International, a global logistics and tech conglomerate. Everyone else knew better.

It didn’t look like a loan office.

It looked like a trap.

Amina swallowed hard and stepped through the revolving doors. The lobby was all chrome and polished stone, lit like an expensive hotel. A receptionist sat behind a long white desk, manicured nails tapping on a tablet. Her expression didn’t change when Amina approached.

“I’m here about a debt,” Amina said quietly. “My father’s. I need… a renegotiation.”

The woman typed her name, paused, then looked her up and down slowly with that same measuring stare.

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Someone authorized a one-time extension this morning.” Her perfectly glossed mouth curved in a smile that never touched her eyes. “You just need to sign the renewal agreement.”

Hope flickered in Amina’s chest, fragile and frantic. “Really?”

The receptionist handed her a thick stack of paper and pointed toward a glass-walled office off to the side. “Sign only the flagged pages. Leave the rest. It’s standard. We’re very efficient here, Miss Okoye.”

Standard.

Efficient.

Threat disguised as customer service, American-style.

Amina sat, heart pounding. She flipped through page after page of dense legal text she didn’t have the training—or time—to understand. Her father’s broken voice echoed in her head. His fear. His hands shaking. The image of their worn couch on a sidewalk because she refused to sign a few pieces of paper.

Her hand trembled as she signed the little yellow flags.

Page after page.

No reading, no questions.

Just desperation. Just duty. Just love.

When she finished, the receptionist collected the pages with a tight, professional smile.

“Your debt has been settled,” she said. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Amina exhaled, tears of sheer relief stinging her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered.

She didn’t see the receptionist lift the desk phone as she walked toward the exit. Didn’t hear the low voice say, “She signed it. Prepare the marriage file.”

She went home believing she had saved everything.

She was wrong.

She didn’t sleep that night. She sat by the window, clutching the printed “extension plan” like a life raft. “It’s done,” she whispered to herself. “The house is safe. Papa is safe. It’s done.”

Morning came anyway.

So did the knock.

Not the careful knock of a neighbor, or the heavy pounding from last night. Three soft taps. Polite. Controlled. The kind of knock that said, We know you’re awake. We know you’ll answer.

Her father rushed to the door, panic riding his shoulders. When he opened it, three black cars lined the curb outside, engines idling.

Men in identical suits stood beside them. In the middle, stepping out of the back seat like gravity didn’t apply to him, was a man Amina had only ever heard about in whispers.

Tall. Sharp. Dangerous in a way that made the very air feel heavier. He had the kind of face that could be angelic on a billboard: clean jawline, full mouth, black hair brushed back perfectly. But his eyes were wrong. Too cold. Too steady. Like nothing surprised him anymore.

He walked up their cracked front steps with slow, unhurried confidence. Not like someone arriving. Like someone returning to what already belonged to him.

“Papa,” Amina whispered. “Who is that?”

Her father’s lips moved around the name like a curse. “Quan… Tay Min.”

Her blood went cold. She knew the articles. The Reddit threads. The local rumors.

The underboss. The son of the chairman. The man people feared more than the police.

And he was standing on their porch.

He didn’t look at her father when he reached them. His gaze went straight to Amina and stayed there, like he’d come for nothing else.

“Miss Amina Okoye?” he asked, voice low and smooth.

She swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

His gaze flickered down her body and back up with a frankness that made her spine stiffen. His lips curved.

“Damn,” he murmured. “You look even better in person.”

Her cheeks burned. “And you sound like a man who needs boundaries,” she shot back automatically.

One of his guards coughed like he was swallowing a laugh. The others stared at a point in the distance, stone-faced.

Tay Min’s smile sharpened. “You’ll learn,” he said, almost amused. Then he lifted a black leather folder and tapped a single page inside. “You signed this yesterday.”

Amina exhaled in relief. “Yes. The extension plan. Thank you for approving it.” She sidestepped his attitude; men like that had hovered around her since high school. They were noise. Right now she only cared about the house.

“Extension plan,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the words.

Her smile faltered. “That’s what the receptionist said. The renewal to pay in installments.”

His lips barely moved, but something in his expression shifted. Not warmth. Not kindness.

Amusement.

“Miss Okoye,” he murmured, “you might want to read the title of the contract you signed.”

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the paper, but his hand landed over it, stopping her. His eyes locked onto hers, black and unblinking.

“Congratulations,” he said.

A heartbeat paused in her chest.

“You’re now my fiancée.”

The world tilted.

“No.” The word ripped out of her. “No, there must be a mistake. I signed a loan extension. I would never—”

“You signed the Quan Syndicate marriage bond,” he said calmly. “Page six. Your signature confirms consent to be engaged to me until the civil ceremony makes it legal under U.S. law.”

“I didn’t— I didn’t see that, I didn’t—”

“That,” he replied, voice going flat, “is not my concern.”

Her father collapsed into the nearest chair, face ashen. “Amina,” he choked. “What have you done?”

“What did I do?” Amina’s voice broke. “You signed the first contract! You went to them!”

“I made the mistake,” he sobbed. “I should have never signed without reading. But you— you shouldn’t have either…”

Tay closed the folder with a soft click that sounded more like a prison door than cardboard.

“I’ll send a car for you tomorrow,” he said. “We have a wedding to prepare.”

“There is no wedding,” Amina snapped, panic and fury clashing in her chest. “I didn’t agree to this. I don’t even know you.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a murmur that slid down her spine like a cold blade. “You signed, Miss Okoye,” he said. “In my world, signatures are everything. You know how this country works. The law is on paper. I have the paper.” His gaze hardened. “And outside the law, I have other ways.”

He straightened, snapped his fingers. His men opened the car doors in perfect unison. Before he turned away, he added one last sentence that knocked the air out of her lungs.

“Pack lightly.”

Then he walked back to his car, leaving her breathless, shaking, and suddenly aware that her world hadn’t just cracked.

It had detonated.

The men came back the next morning.

They didn’t knock hard. They didn’t threaten. They just waited on the curb in front of their modest East L.A. rental like royal guards outside a palace, hands behind their backs, faces blank. Cars idling. Engines humming.

Inside, the Okoye living room felt like a funeral.

Her father clutched the contract printout in both hands like it might explode. “We called their office,” he whispered. “We spoke to three different people.”

“And?” Amina could barely get the word out.

“They said the contract cannot be undone. Not by negotiation. Not by payment. Not even by legal challenge.” His jaw shook. “They were very polite about it.”

“It was a mistake,” Amina cried. “I thought I was signing an extension. I didn’t agree to marry anyone.”

Her mother grabbed her hands, tears streaming. “Baby, please. Calm down.”

“They tricked me.” Amina yanked away, pacing. “They deceived me. This is America. There has to be a way out. A lawyer, a court, something—”

“You don’t understand how powerful this family is,” her father said hoarsely. “We tried to push. They said if you refuse…” He swallowed, voice cracking. “We all pay for it.”

“What does that mean?” she whispered.

He looked down, unable to say it.

Her mother wiped her face with shaking fingers. “They will punish us, Amina. They will take the house, the shop, your father’s medication, everything. And with their record…” She shook her head. “Who will protect us? The police?” She let out a humorless laugh. “Ell.A.P.D. doesn’t even say their name on camera.”

Amina staggered back.

“I didn’t agree to belong to anyone,” she said weakly. “I didn’t agree to marry a crime boss.”

Three soft knocks cut her words in half.

“Miss Okoye,” a calm voice came through the door. “We are here to escort you.”

Her parents flinched. Amina stood frozen as the man added, “Underboss Quan says you may take your time. We will wait.”

Too gentle. Too polite. That somehow made it worse.

“They’re acting like I already belong to him,” she whispered.

Her father suddenly dropped to his knees in front of her, hands clasped. “Amina, please,” he begged. “Please don’t fight them. If anything happens to you, if anything happens to us… we won’t survive it.”

Her mother joined him, both kneeling, both begging. It tore something inside her.

She covered her mouth to stop the scream building in her chest. Outside, the men didn’t move. Didn’t knock again. Didn’t look at their phones. They just waited, still and silent, like they were waiting for a delivery.

Her father whispered the words that broke her. “Just go, Amina. Go… and come back alive.”

In that moment she understood something terrifying.

She wasn’t being escorted.

She was being collected.

The hotel they put her in sat on a hill overlooking the glittering sprawl of Los Angeles. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Plush white sheets. A view most people waited a lifetime to afford.

Amina sat on the edge of the bed and felt nothing but trapped.

Tomorrow, the wedding would happen. Her hands trembled in her lap. Her whole body felt like a fist that wouldn’t unclench. She tried to breathe. Tried to be strong. Tried to remember why she’d said yes to the car, to the dress, to any of it.

For her father. For her mother. For the small apartment under the freeway that somehow felt like home.

She wandered the halls of the hotel to quiet her mind. It was late; the corridors were empty, carpeted in thick silence. The only sounds were the hum of the elevator and the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen below.

That was when she overheard them.

Two of Tay’s men leaned against the wall near a service door, uniforms half unbuttoned, voices low.

“His ex-wives didn’t last long,” one said in Korean.

Amina slowed, the words tugging at the basic vocabulary she’d picked up at work.

“He expects too much,” the other replied. “Too intense. No woman can handle him.”

A chill ran through her. She understood enough to get the message.

Virgin. Inexperienced. Contract bride. Trapped.

Her pulse spiked. Her palms went slick. She didn’t want to imagine what “too intense” meant in their world.

She felt it before she saw it—the weight of someone’s gaze.

She turned.

He was standing in the dim light at the end of the hallway, one shoulder propped against the wall, arms crossed. Watching.

Not angry. Not amused.

Just… there.

His eyes slid over her, catching every little tremor she tried to hide. The widening of her eyes. The unconscious step backward. He took it in and said nothing.

Silence settled over them, thick as fog.

Her throat tightened. Her thoughts spun. Did he know what she’d overheard? Did he know she was afraid? How much could he read off her like this, from twenty feet away in a hotel corridor in America, with his men talking about him like he was some kind of myth?

The guards went quiet when they saw him. The entire hallway seemed to hold its breath.

Finally, Tay pushed off the wall. For a second, she thought he would walk toward her.

Instead, he turned and walked away.

Not a word.

But the message was clear.

He knew.

And he was watching.

The ballroom the next day glittered like a palace built on lies.

Chandeliers dripped gold and crystal. Violinists played something soft and expensive. Hundreds of guests in tailored suits and designer gowns sipped champagne and pretended they didn’t know whose money paid for all of this.

Masks weren’t just on the guests’ faces; they were built into the walls.

But for Amina, none of it sparkled. The room felt cold. The aisle felt long. Every step felt like walking deeper into a tomb carved just for her.

At the far end, he waited.

Tay Min Quan, the man who owned the fear of half the West Coast, stood in a black suit that fit him like a command. His hair was perfect, his shoulders straight, his expression carved out of stone.

The moment she appeared at the door, his eyes lifted and found her.

He didn’t blink.

He looked at her like a predator watching prey that intrigued him.

Amina swallowed hard. Her feet nearly stopped moving. There was no smile on his face. No warmth. No welcome.

Just claiming.

The officiant spoke words that blurred together. Promises. Vows. Legal language hardened into shackles. Rings slid onto fingers. Her hand shook so badly she almost dropped his ring, but he didn’t steady her. Didn’t touch her except when protocol demanded it. Just watched her tremble and seemed to memorize it.

“And now,” the officiant said, “you may kiss the bride.”

Her stomach dropped.

Her breath caught.

“Don’t,” she whispered under her breath, panic thrumming in her veins. “Don’t you dare—”

He stepped forward, slow and inevitable. His hands slid around her waist, firm and possessive. His warmth soaked through the thin silk of her dress. He heard her. She knew he did. His lashes lowered anyway.

He kissed her.

Not rough. Not bruising. Not what she expected from a man whose name lived in police files.

He kissed her slowly. Deliberately.

His mouth was firm, his control absolute. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. A seal. A line being crossed in front of hundreds of witnesses and one very indifferent God.

Amina stiffened, fingers curling into fists at her sides. Her mind screamed to pull away. To slap him. To run.

He paused a fraction of a second, their mouths still touching, their breaths tangled. Her eyes flew up to his in shock, betrayal, a thousand questions.

Instead of letting her go, he tilted his head and kissed her again.

Deeper.

Something traitorous inside her stuttered. Heat crawled up her neck. Her lips parted on a gasp, and for the briefest, most damning moment, she kissed him back.

The room vanished.

There was only the press of his mouth, the way he tasted like mint and danger, the terrifying sense of falling forward into something she did not want and could not ignore.

Her knees wobbled. Her pulse roared in her ears.

Then she shoved him, hard.

The spell shattered. Noise flooded back in: polite applause, camera shutters, murmured comments. Her chest rose and fell too fast. Shame burned her cheeks. She had just enjoyed kissing a man she hated, in a marriage she never asked for.

He looked at her calmly. No apology. No triumph.

Just that same unreadable, dangerous gaze wrapping around her like invisible chains.

Amina’s world tilted again.

Because in that moment, with her lips still tingling and her heart still racing, she understood something new and awful.

She was not ready for this man.

Not his intensity. Not his power. Not the way one kiss could pull a reaction out of her body she’d never felt with anyone else.

And the worst part?

Somewhere deep inside, a part of her she didn’t want to acknowledge knew one more thing:

This wouldn’t be the last time she kissed him.

The penthouse on top of Quan Tower didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a throne room.

Marble floors reflected her bare feet as she stepped out of the private elevator. Dark art hung on the walls, all sharp lines and shadows. The blackout glass offered a panoramic view of Los Angeles—freeways, palm trees, smog and stars.

At the center of it all, he stood with his back to her, hands clasped behind him.

“Welcome to your new home,” he said, voice low and controlled.

Nothing in his tone sounded like home.

Amina’s lips parted, then pressed together again. She didn’t trust herself to speak.

He didn’t turn around. “House rules,” he said calmly, as if reading a grocery list. “You will not enter my office without permission. You won’t wander the tower at night; my meetings run late. Don’t touch me while I sleep.”

She blinked. “Wait, that’s it?”

He turned then, eyes meeting hers. “No,” he said. “It’s not.”

He walked closer, stopping just in front of her. Too close. Close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jaw, the shadows under his eyes that expensive concealer couldn’t hide.

“You will stand beside me in public,” he continued. “At events. At dinners. You will smile when cameras flash. You will wear what I give you and you will make it look good. In return, I will protect your family as if they’re mine.”

“And?” she asked, throat tight.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“And when I ask,” he said quietly, “you will share my bed.”

Amina jerked back as if he’d slapped her. “I didn’t marry you for that,” she snapped. “I married you to save my parents.”

“This is how you save them,” he said, not unkindly. “With your presence. Your time. Your name next to mine. You know the bargain you made, Amina. In this country, contracts mean something. In my world, they mean everything.”

“I have school,” she whispered. “I have a job. I had a life before all this. I didn’t sign up to be paraded around L.A. like—”

He tilted his head. “Disobey me,” he said softly, “and watch how fast your parents’ lives fall apart.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

The threat lived in the space between his words.

She stared at him, hatred and helplessness clashing inside her.

He turned away, dismissing the argument as settled.

That first night, the penthouse felt too big, too quiet. Amina wandered the halls like a ghost. She didn’t notice him until he was just there, blocking the corridor.

He wasn’t looming. He wasn’t towering over her. He just stood still, that same intensity wrapping around him like a second suit.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered, voice barely audible.

Something flickered in his eyes.

He stepped back. Not dramatically. Not like a man offended. Just… back. Giving her space. His gaze troubled, almost human for half a heartbeat.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he muttered, more to the wall than to her.

Her legs went weak. He was a contradiction she didn’t know how to process—cold and threatening in one breath, backing off the next like her fear actually mattered.

Later, she heard him through the wall.

Soft sounds. Unmistakable yet impossible. A man’s voice, low and broken in a language she only half understood.

She crept closer, pulse racing, until she could hear it clearly.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered in Korean, over and over. “Don’t leave me.”

There was a rustle, the sound of someone battling an invisible enemy. His hand reached for the empty space beside him and clenched in nothing.

A nightmare.

Not the monster from the rumors. Not entirely. Just a man. Damaged. Haunted. Trapped in memories she knew nothing about—memories that probably started years before either of them set foot in America.

“What are the ex-wives hiding?” she whispered to herself.

For hours, she watched him from the doorway, a shadow in his own kingdom, fighting demons no one else could see. The man who could destroy her was also very clearly destroying himself.

And she realized with a jolt that no matter what she chose—run or stay—she was already entangled in his world.

There was no going back.

The boardroom smelled like expensive cigars, polished wood, and American money.

Tay sat at the head of the long table, flanked by foreign investors in thousand-dollar suits. Screens glowed with numbers and graphs. A financial advisor from New York was droning about projected profits on a new West Coast expansion.

“Projected revenue, three point eight billion dollars annually,” the advisor said. “Quan Group just needs your signature to finalize the U.S. partnership.”

But Tay wasn’t listening.

He stared straight ahead and saw none of it. His mind replayed one moment on loop.

Her voice.

“I’m a virgin.”

The way she’d whispered it, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, body trembling under his hands. The way his own pulse had spiked, how the usual switch in his brain—the one that drowned out conscience and focused only on need—refused to flip.

He’d touched dozens of women. Hundreds, maybe. They’d walked into his bed knowing exactly who he was and what he wanted. They’d treated it like a transaction.

She hadn’t.

A twenty-three-year-old scholarship student in a country that already made everything harder for her had looked at him like he was both danger and temptation, sin and rescue, all at once.

And instead of boring him, it had unsettled him.

“Mr. Quan?”

He didn’t hear it.

“Mr. Quan.” The American investor’s voice sharpened. “Are we wasting our time here?”

A muscle jumped in Tay’s jaw. He never lost focus. Never. In his world, distraction got people killed or indicted.

Yet here he was, in Los Angeles, in a glass tower he owned, distracted by a girl who’d signed his marriage contract without even reading the title.

He forced his fingers to relax around the pen.

“My apologies,” he said, voice smooth again. “Let’s continue.”

He signed the documents on autopilot, forced his mind back to the numbers, shoved images of her dark eyes and shaking hands into a box and slammed the lid.

They didn’t stay there.

That night, when he walked into the mansion he kept outside Beverly Hills—his real home, away from cameras and investors—the guards straightened automatically.

Normally, he moved like a storm through the entrance hall. Calculating. Dominant. Untouchable.

Tonight, he stopped dead.

Because sitting in the living room, legs crossed, perfectly lit by the warm glow of the chandelier, was a ghost from his past.

Sharon.

The ex-wife who had once run from him in the middle of the night. The one everyone swore had been his favorite, because she’d survived the longest. The one he’d never bothered to chase.

Until now, she’d stayed gone.

“Tam Min,” she said softly, like his name tasted the same as it used to.

He stiffened. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t smile. Didn’t move closer. Didn’t welcome her.

“What,” he said, voice flat as ice, “are you doing in my house?”

Sharon stood gracefully, letting her silky hair fall over one shoulder. Her red lips curved in a dangerous smile. Her dress hugged an hourglass figure that had made half his men forget to breathe the first time he brought her home.

The maids froze in the doorway. Even the air seemed to change.

Sharon always had that effect.

She was the only woman who had ever walked away from him without looking back.

She stepped closer, perfume curling through the room like a memory he didn’t want.

“I tried to stay away,” she said quietly. “I really did. I tried to love someone else. I tried to live without you.” Her voice shook just enough to sound real. “But I couldn’t.”

He watched her, expression unreadable.

“You wanted too much,” she continued. “Needed too much. I was afraid I’d never be enough. So I left before you could break me.” She exhaled shakily. “But I’m here now. I came back. I’m ready to give you everything you wanted.”

The room felt tight and loaded.

Tay didn’t step back.

He didn’t pull her in either.

He just stood there, jaw clenched, as the past and present collided in one very dangerous living room.

Amina chose that moment to walk past the doorway, fresh out of the shower, damp curls falling over her shoulders, wearing nothing but a simple top and a skirt. Comfortable. Innocent. Completely unprepared.

She stopped dead.

Her eyes met Sharon’s. Sharon’s gaze flicked over her in one quick, scathing sweep.

“And who is this?” she asked sweetly, venom lacing each word.

Amina opened her mouth, no idea what to even call herself.

Tay cut in before she could speak. “What are you doing here, Sharon?” he snapped, grabbing his ex-wife’s wrist—not gently—and dragging her toward the nearest private room.

The door slammed in Amina’s face.

Behind her, the maids started whispering.

“Miss Sharon is back.”

“Maybe the boss will finally be happy again.”

“She was the only one he really wanted.”

Amina turned slowly, jaw tight. A sharp, unfamiliar feeling twisted in her chest.

Jealousy.

She didn’t like it. Didn’t expect it. Didn’t want it. But it burned, hot and humiliating.

Without a word, she walked to her room and shut the door harder than she meant to.

For the first time since the forced wedding, she wondered if she’d just met the woman she could never compete with.

The campus buzzed with life the next day. Students laughed, rushed between classes, ordered iced coffee from the food truck parked near the engineering building. No one knew—or cared—that the girl sitting alone by the fountain had married a crime prince to save her family.

No one except the bloggers and gossip accounts, anyway.

Amina’s phone rang. “Mama,” she answered quickly, forcing a lightness into her voice. “Yes, I’m fine. Yes, classes are good. No, I’m not skipping meals.”

She didn’t tell her mother about Sharon. About the way the maids looked at her now. About how small she felt eating at the far end of the dining table while Sharon and Tay spoke in low Korean by the window.

She hung up and stared at the water in the fountain, the California sun reflecting harshly off its surface.

Why did it bother her so much?

She hadn’t wanted this marriage. Hadn’t wanted him. Hadn’t wanted the ring, the cars, the tower.

So why did her stomach twist every time she remembered his hand on Sharon’s waist? The way the older woman said his name like she owned part of it?

“I need a distraction,” she muttered. “I need to focus.”

She pushed herself through classes, took obsessive notes, volunteered answers she normally would’ve kept in her head. When that didn’t help, she went straight to her part-time job after lectures, staying late at the shipping office to translate documents, to wash cups, to do anything that would keep her too exhausted to think about Quan Tower.

By the time she finally headed “home,” the sun had set and the city lights painted L.A. in neon and lies.

The mansion glowed on the hill like a trap.

She slipped inside quietly, hoping to vanish into her room without seeing either of them.

No such luck.

When she opened her bedroom door, Tay was already inside, shirtless, back half turned toward her as he leaned on the dresser. Muscles moved under his skin as he tensed.

He looked up.

“Amina.”

She swallowed. “I don’t feel like talking,” she said flatly. “And I definitely don’t feel like seeing you.”

His brows pulled together. “What’s this attitude?” His voice stayed low. “What’s going on with you?”

She ignored him and walked past, her scent brushing his skin. The bathroom door slid mostly shut behind her, leaving her silhouette visible through the frosted glass.

He saw the outline of her lifting her shirt. Dropping it. Reaching behind to unclasp her bra. His jaw clenched. He turned away, but the image burned into his mind anyway.

The sound of the shower came next—soft, intimate, unintentional torture.

He took one step toward the door, then stopped dead.

No.

Not like this. Not when everything between them was a mess of contracts and misunderstandings and other women.

He exhaled hard and walked out of her room instead, closing the door behind him more gently than he felt.

Inside the bathroom, Amina pressed her hands to her forehead under the hot spray, breath shaking.

She hated all of it. The jealousy. The confusion. The way she could still feel his gaze, even with a wall between them.

The night breeze swept across the mansion balcony later, brushing Sharon’s silk robe as she stood dangerously close to Tay.

Too close.

Her back was almost against the glass railing. His hand rested on the pane beside her head. To anyone glancing up from the grounds, it would look intimate.

Sharon tilted her head, her voice low and smug. “I heard your first wife, Monica, sent Amina a letter,” she said. “Told her to run from you.”

Tay went still. “A letter?” His jaw flexed. “From Monica?”

Sharon watched him, eyes calculating. “You didn’t know?” She tsked softly. “Maybe that’s why your little student wife is so jumpy. So scared of you. So easy to spook.”

Before he could respond, Sharon’s gaze flicked past his shoulder. She smiled. “Amina,” she purred.

Amina was walking toward the balcony doors, head down, clutching her bag. The moment she looked up and saw them—his hand braced near Sharon’s head, the closeness, the almost-whispering—her expression shuttered.

She stopped.

Something fragile in her chest cracked.

She turned away so fast she almost ran into a side table. She muttered an apology to no one and escaped down the hall.

That night, she couldn’t stand the thought of Sharon’s perfume in the hallways, of hushed laughter behind closed doors. Of Tay looking at someone else the way he’d looked at her in the hotel, right before she’d told him the truth about her body.

So she didn’t go home.

For the first time in her life, she went to a club.

Jeans. A simple top. Lip gloss. Nothing too flashy. Just enough to feel like she wasn’t a walking prison sentence.

The music throbbed. Lights strobed. The air pulsed with bass and sweat and a thousand strangers trying to forget their problems.

She ordered a drink. Then another. Shots, because she didn’t want to taste, she just wanted to burn. She wanted to forget the balcony, the ex-wife, the way her heart had done something ugly when she saw them together.

A handsome guy appeared at her elbow. Tall, muscular, easy smile. “Dance?” he shouted over the music.

Maybe flirting with a stranger would erase the image in her head.

She nodded.

He pulled her onto the dance floor, hands on her hips, moving with a confidence that said he’d done this a hundred times.

Amina let herself sway recklessly, drunkenly, clinging to the beat like a lifeline. For a few minutes, it almost worked. Her head spun, and the weight on her chest lightened.

Then the light dimmed over them, and a shadow fell.

A hand clamped onto the guy’s shoulder.

“That’s my wife,” a voice said. Calm. Cold. Cutting through the noise like a knife.

The man turned, irritation dying instantly when he saw who he’d touched.

Amina jerked back. “I’m not your wife,” she snapped, alcohol sharpening the words. “I’m your contract.”

Tay’s jaw tightened. He reached for her arm. She yanked it away.

“Leave me alone,” she shouted. “Go find Sharon. You’re obsessed with her anyway.”

People were turning now. Phones lifted. Notebooks in digital form—Twitter drafts, Insta stories—opened in a hundred hands.

“I’m just a contract wife, right?” she threw at him, voice cracking, eyes bright with unshed tears. “You made that very clear. I’m just here to pay my father’s debt.”

His eyes flashed with something like pain, but she was too drunk and furious to see it.

He didn’t argue with the crowd. He didn’t threaten. He just picked her up. Literally scooped her off the sticky dance floor like she weighed nothing and carried her out while she pummeled his shoulder with small, clumsy fists.

He didn’t take her to the mansion.

He booked a hotel room nearby, afraid she’d pass out in the car.

Amina stumbled inside and turned on him, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. “Get out,” she said.

He closed the door slowly. “No.”

She glared, voice shaking. “Why have you been avoiding me?” The question slipped out, raw and naked. It had been eating at her since the night he’d walked out of his own bedroom, leaving her half-dressed and shaking on a bed big enough to swallow her.

“I don’t want to see someone who left me like that,” she said, voice breaking. “And then ran straight back to his ex-wife.”

Silence.

Then, shockingly, he laughed. A low, disbelieving sound.

“Nothing is funny,” she snapped.

He stepped closer. His hand slid under her chin, lifting her face to his. His eyes were darker than she’d ever seen them.

“I left you,” he said quietly, “because I think I don’t deserve you.”

She froze.

“Your body,” he said, thumb brushing her jaw. “Your innocence. You told me the truth. No one ever does that with me.” His voice roughened. “I’ve never cared if I hurt anyone before. Not really. But you…” He exhaled shakily. “You make me careful.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

He swallowed. “And Sharon?” A bitter smile twisted his mouth. “I brought her close on purpose. I wanted to see if it would bother you.” His gaze searched hers. “If you’d be jealous.”

“It worked,” she whispered, throat tight.

His lips quirked. “I know.”

Anger and something softer wrestled inside her. She looked up at him, still swaying slightly from the alcohol, eyes glossy and honest.

“You think I don’t feel small next to you?” she whispered. “I thought you were too good for me. Too rich. Too experienced. Too perfect.” A humorless laugh slipped out. “You’re a billionaire crime prince and I’m a broke scholarship student from East L.A.”

He stared at her like she’d just said the most absurd thing he’d ever heard.

She took a tiny step closer, fingertips brushing his chest. “But now I understand something,” she said, voice soft.

“What?” he asked, barely breathing.

Her eyes softened with drunken courage. “You have beautiful eyes,” she said simply.

His throat tightened. “Amina…”

“I feel like kissing you,” she confessed. “I feel like doing things I’ve never done with anyone before.”

His control snapped.

“Then do it,” he said, voice low.

She moved first. Climbing onto his lap, thighs bracketing his waist. His hands flew to her hips instinctively, holding her like she might break.

She kissed him. Sweet at first. Tentative. Then deeper. Hungrier.

Her hands slid up his neck, into his hair. He made a sound against her mouth that he would deny making later. The kiss turned messy and real and nothing like the cold, perfect scenes he’d staged for cameras before.

He whispered against her lips, “Tell me if I hurt you.”

“You won’t,” she breathed.

This time, when they crossed the line they’d been circling since the day she’d signed that cursed contract, there were no deals on the table. No witnesses. No threats.

Just two people who shouldn’t fit, falling into each other anyway.

They barely slept.

Morning found them tangled in hotel sheets, sun slipping through cheap curtains instead of penthouse glass. Amina woke first, cheek on his bare chest, his arm heavy around her waist.

Heat rushed to her face.

He cracked one eye open and smirked. “Still think you don’t deserve me?” he murmured.

“You’re too much,” she muttered, burying her face in his chest.

“I know,” he said smugly. “Good thing you kept up.”

She swatted his side, half mortified, half glowing.

He reached for his phone on the nightstand, still smirking like a man whose day could not possibly be ruined.

His smile vanished.

Thirty missed calls. A flood of notifications. Messages from his board. His PR team. Security. Links to videos, screenshots of headlines.

He tapped one.

The club.

Taken from three different angles. Amina, drunk, shouting over the music. “I’m just a contract wife! I only married him to pay my father’s debt!”

The caption: LA MAFIA HEIR’S WIFE SAYS MARRIAGE IS FAKE – QUAN PRINCE EXPOSED.

It was all over American gossip sites. All over Korean forums. Trending on Twitter. On TikTok. On YouTube. People dissected every second, every slur in her voice, every flash of pain on his face.

He dropped the phone on the bed. Jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

“What is it?” Amina pushed up, bleary, panic rising when she saw the screen.

Her own face stared back at her. Over and over. Frozen mid-shout.

“Oh,” she whispered. “Oh no.”

In a week, the rumor snowballed. Investors panicked. Contracts wavered. Old enemies smiled. Talking heads on American cable shows finally said the word “Quan” out loud.

Amina’s social media filled with strangers calling her a gold digger, a liar, worse. Some defended her, saying she was clearly forced. Others said she was lucky.

Her world shrank to hate in her phone and the guilt that sat on her chest like a weight.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered days later, eyes swollen from crying, voice raw. “I’m so sorry, Tay.”

He sat on the edge of the bed in the penthouse, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie gone. For once, he looked tired. Not physically—he could run on three hours of sleep. Tired in his eyes.

“Amina—”

“If I stay, I’ll ruin your business more,” she said quickly. “I said stupid things in that club. I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have said I was a fake wife. Now everyone’s attacking you, attacking me, attacking my family…”

“You’re not the one who built a life out of things that crumble this easily,” he said.

She shook her head. “I can’t take the bullying,” she whispered. “I can’t walk outside without cameras in my face. I can’t breathe without someone twisting it online. I’m not used to this life.”

He watched her, expression unreadable.

“Give me one year,” she said suddenly.

His brows drew together. “One year for what?”

“One year to pay my father’s debt myself,” she said. “I have his documents now. I’ll figure it out. I’ll work, I’ll do whatever it takes. I don’t want to be a burden to you anymore. I don’t want to be the reason your deals fall apart.”

Something in his face flickered. She didn’t see it as mercy. She saw it as proof.

Proof that they were from different worlds.

“That’s your decision?” he asked quietly.

Tears gathered. “Yes.”

He stood, jaw tight. “If you walk out now,” he said, voice low, “you’re letting strangers control you. Internet nobodies. Bloggers in their pajamas in Iowa. You’re giving them the right to decide your life.”

She looked away. “I just want a normal life again,” she whispered. “I want to go to class without someone filming me. I want to buy groceries without hearing my name. I want to exist without trending.”

Her voice shook on the next words. “I want you,” she admitted, “but I don’t know how to live in your world.”

That shattered something in him.

She reached for the door.

“Amina,” he said, voice suddenly raw.

She froze but didn’t turn around.

“Come back,” he said.

She gripped the doorknob so hard her knuckles went white.

She didn’t.

She walked out with tears in her eyes and guilt like an anchor in her chest.

The door clicked shut behind her.

In the silence that followed, Tay swore under his breath and drove his fist into the wall hard enough to crack the drywall. For the first time in his life, he was genuinely afraid of losing someone.

Not because they’d left.

Because this time, he knew she had every reason to.

One month passed.

One month without him. One month without the penthouse. One month of East L.A. reality: school, work, cheap food, bad sleep.

And one month of seeing his name everywhere anyway.

Quan Group Signs Record-Breaking Fifty Billion Dollar Deal.

LA Crime Prince Turns Scandal into Power Move.

Kor-Am CEO Proves He’s Untouchable.

It was all over American business networks. All over international news. Her classmates watched it between lectures. Her coworkers replayed clips in the break room.

Amina lay on her childhood bed, still in her work clothes, staring at the ceiling. Exhausted. Hollow.

Her mother poked her head in. “My daughter,” she said gently. “Should I bring you some jollof rice? You’ve barely eaten.”

“No appetite, Mama,” she mumbled. “I’m fine.”

She wasn’t fine.

Her eyes drifted to the flickering TV in the living room. There he was, in a perfectly cut black suit, shaking hands with American and Korean executives. That rare, real smile on his face. Cameras loved him. The world applauded him.

Her chest hurt.

“Why am I even expecting him to call?” she whispered to herself. “I left first.”

Her phone rang.

Unknown number. Business line format.

She knew it before she answered.

“Hello?” Her voice shook.

“Mrs. Quan,” a male voice said, cold and official. “Report to the penthouse immediately. The chairman is waiting.”

No explanation. No softness. Just an order.

It didn’t matter.

She went.

The elevator ride up the tower felt longer than the entire month without him. Her palms were slick. Her throat was dry. Hope and dread twisted together until she couldn’t tell them apart.

She stepped into the penthouse, heartbeat loud in her ears.

He stood by the glass wall, hands in his pockets, looking out over Los Angeles like he hated every inch of it.

When he finally turned to face her, his expression was carved from stone.

“Sit,” he said.

Her heart dropped.

She obeyed, legs weak, and sat on the edge of the couch.

He placed a stack of paper on the table between them.

Divorce papers.

Her vision blurred.

“Sign it,” he said. His voice held nothing. Not warmth. Not anger. Just emptiness.

She stared at the pages, at the neat type, at the blank line where her name was supposed to go.

“Did you…” Her voice barely worked. “Did you already stop caring?”

He didn’t answer.

That hurt more than any insult could have.

Her pride screamed at her to sign. To stand up. To walk away with her head high. Pay your father’s debt. Finish your degree. Build a life without him. You survived before him, you’ll survive after.

Her hand closed around the pen.

Her hand wouldn’t move.

A choked sound escaped her throat instead. Then another.

Finally, she broke.

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “I can’t sign it.”

Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“I hate you,” she cried.

His brows lifted, just slightly.

“I hate the way you’re talking to me like I don’t matter,” she said, words spilling out now. “I hate the way you’re looking at me like I’m just another problem to erase. I hate how cold you are after everything. And—” Her voice cracked. “And I hate myself for caring about any of it.”

Tay exhaled, the breath rough.

He crossed the space between them in three strides and pulled her to her feet by the wrist.

“Amina,” he said, voice low, frustrated, shaking under the control, “you made your decision when you walked out. Now I’m making mine.”

Her heart plummeted. She grabbed his shirt with both hands, tears soaking the fabric. “No,” she gasped. “Please. I can’t take your decision. I can’t let you go.”

Tears streaked her cheeks, hot and endless. “I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I made everything worse. I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough.” Her breath hitched. “Do you still… love me?”

His jaw clenched.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

She froze.

“But love isn’t enough,” he added. “Not if you run every time it gets hard.”

She cupped his face with shaking hands. “I won’t run again,” she whispered. “Not from you. Not from your world. Not from the cameras or the comments or any of it.”

Her tears fell faster. “I’ll stay. On the bad days and the good ones. I swear it.”

She leaned in and pressed tiny, desperate kisses to his forehead. His cheeks. The corner of his mouth. As if she could paste herself back into his life with her lips.

Something inside him finally snapped.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, firm and possessive. In one smooth motion, he lifted her off the floor. She gasped, arms flying around his shoulders to steady herself.

His forehead touched hers. His voice was low and dangerous and honest.

“I missed you,” he said.

Amina smiled through her tears, a sound that was half laugh, half sob.

He carried her to the bedroom as if she weighed nothing. His mouth traced the line of her throat, slower this time. Not claiming a prize. Claiming a future.

“Do you know what I want now?” he murmured against her skin.

She shook her head shyly.

“Triplets,” he said. “That look exactly like you.”

Her breath hitched, then she laughed, tugging him closer. “Then don’t waste time, husband.”

He growled softly and kissed her, deep and relieved. This time, she didn’t hold back. This time, she didn’t think about contracts or cameras or headlines.

Where fear had lived, something else grew.

Where doubt had rooted itself, certainty began to take its place.

Amina held him like she meant it. “I’m not leaving again,” she whispered.

“Good,” Tay Min Quan answered against her lips, in a penthouse high above Los Angeles where signatures had once ruined her life and somehow also saved it. “Because this time, I’m never letting you go.”