Mag-log in“I don't need a partner. I only need someone who knows their place.” Darren Wijaya is a young billionaire who commands power and fear in the business world. Behind his seemingly perfect life, however, lie secrets that must never be exposed to the public. One night, he meets Ezra, a university student on the verge of dropping out due to financial hardship. When every door seems closed, Darren presents him with an offer that is impossible to ignore. A luxurious apartment. A monthly allowance worth more than enough to live comfortably. Every expense taken care of. In return, Ezra only has to belong to him. Not as a boyfriend. Not as a partner. Just someone who will always be there whenever Darren needs him. For the sake of his future, Ezra accepts the arrangement. He promises himself that he will never let emotions become involved in a relationship that is, from the very beginning, nothing more than a transaction. But as time passes and he gets to know Darren better, Ezra begins to see the man behind the power—a loneliness hidden beneath authority, scars concealed behind a cold exterior, and small acts of kindness that slowly make his heart waver. The problem is that, to Darren, Ezra is nothing more than a kept companion. At least, that's what he keeps telling himself. Until the day he realizes that losing Ezra is far more terrifying than losing every cent of his fortune.
view more“Don’t move, or this pen will pierce your carotid artery before your guards can even take a breath.” Dante Adrian’s voice sounded like ice scraping against glass—cold, sharp, and unwavering. In his hand, a titanium tactical pen pressed lightly against the neck of a large man who had tried to ambush him in a dark alley behind the Grand Théâtre de Genève. Dante didn’t need a gun to prove he was Leonard Virelli’s finest student; all he needed was lethal composure. “Wait! I’m not an enemy!” the man choked, raising both hands. “I’m just a courier! The lady wants to meet you.” Dante applied a little more pressure, letting the sharp tip draw a faint bead of red on the man’s skin. His quiet life as an anonymous writer in Switzerland had just been shattered in seconds. “Which lady? I don’t know any woman in this city who sends thugs as dinner invitations.” “Isabella… Isabella Moretti,” the man whispered, trembling. The name hit Dante like a sledgehammer. Moretti. A family that should have
The funicular descended into the abyssal maw of the Lauterbrunnen Valley with a mechanical, rhythmic hum that felt like a funeral dirge. Behind them, high atop the jagged peaks, the villa was a dying star. The secondary explosions sent tremors through the mountain, muffled by the thick winter air, until the once-proud stone fortress was nothing more than a jagged silhouette against a pillar of fire.Dante sat on the floor of the small cable car, his back pressed against the vibrating metal wall. Marco lay beside him, his breathing shallow but stable, his head resting on a bunched-up tactical jacket. Dante’s hands were stained with a mixture of Leonard’s blood and the soot of the medical wing. He looked down at his palms, the tremors finally catching up to him.The debt was paid. The words echoed in his mind, louder than the wind whistling through the funicular’s cables. Leonard was gone. The man who had been his god, his jailer, and his twisted father figure had chosen a Viking funera
The villa trembled as the first volley of high-caliber rounds shattered the floor-to-ceiling windows of the library. Shards of expensive Bohemian glass rained down like diamond dust, glinting in the firelight before embedding themselves into the mahogany floor. Leonard didn't flinch. He stood amidst the carnage with the serenity of a conductor waiting for the first note of a macabre symphony."Down!" Dante lunged forward, his survival instinct overriding his hatred. He tackled Leonard behind the massive oak desk just as a red laser dot danced across the leather chair where the older man had been sitting a second ago."Always so protective, Dante," Leonard remarked, his voice barely a whisper against the backdrop of chaos. He adjusted his silk tie, seemingly unbothered by the fact that the Surya Group had just turned his sanctuary into a kill zone. "It’s a reflex you’ll never truly lose.""Shut up," Dante hissed, checking the magazine of his pistol. "You said Akash was on your payroll.
The icy rain of Zurich felt like needles against Dante’s skin as he ducked into a narrow alleyway behind the Bahnhofstrasse. His lungs burned, each breath a sharp reminder of the violence he had just committed in the bowels of the bank. In his satchel, the titanium case clattered—a heavy, silent witness to the ghost of Leonard Virelli.He didn't head for the main station. The Surya Group would have the terminals crawling with "cleaners" within minutes. Instead, he navigated the winding, cobblestone streets of the Altstadt, his mind operating on a cold, tactical frequency he thought he had buried in Brooklyn. He needed a ghost—not the one in Alaska, but a living one.Dante reached a weathered oak door tucked between a watchmaker’s shop and a chocolatier. He knocked a rhythmic sequence: three slow, two fast.The door creaked open to reveal a woman with silver hair cropped close to her scalp and eyes as hard as Alpine granite. This was Elena, a former "logistics specialist" for the Virel
Slam! Darren smashed his right fist into the marble wall of the bathroom with full force, unleashing a violent thud that was heavily muffled by the shower, which he had deliberately turned on to its maximum volume. His knuckles instantly flared crimson, throbbing with sharp pain, yet the physical s
Ezra quickly tugged his collar upward, cutting off Raka’s gaze with a panicked motion that only made him look incredibly suspicious. "It's nothing. Just... a bug bite from when I was sleeping," Ezra stammered, his voice sounding raspy and strained to his own ears. Raka was no fool. He narrowed his
A splitting headache slammed into Ezra’s consciousness as a shaft of morning sunlight forced its way through his eyelids. He groaned softly, attempting to move his body. However, a sharp, excruciating ache flared from his waist down to his very nerve endings, instantly reminding him of the hellish y
Ezra didn’t remember how he made it home that night. The black business card with the gold ink in his trousers pocket felt as heavy as a block of metal, pressing relentlessly against his thigh and his conscience. On the dining table, illuminated only by a dim five-watt bulb, the final warning letter
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