Love Does Not Exist.

Chapter 1.

Rosealba stood in front of the mirror at her apartment.

She gave her stunning reflection another glare in the mirror.

Gosh! She looked perfect in these jeans and a milk-colored top. These were the words her best friend, Lina propelled her to always say to herself to build her confidence.

Her hands moved to her blonde hair, and she flipped it behind her ear, giving herself another reflection in the mirror before grabbing her bag.

She stood there for a second longer, admiring the simple but confident version of herself staring back. Her eyes held something brighter than usual today—maybe it was hope… maybe it was healing.

Just as Rosealba stepped out of her apartment door, her phone made a gentle buzz against her bag.

Her eyes rolled sideways and she let in a deep exhale.

She didn't need to check who the caller was—it was her mother. Her mother had been calling her for the past few days and… she honestly had no intention to pick.

The constant pressure, the emotional guilt, the unbearable weight of expectations—Rosealba wasn’t ready to carry them again. Not now. Not when she had barely begun to feel free.

Rosealba moved closer to her car—an old vintage Fiat, which was currently parked at the front of her apartment.

She ran her hand along its door before slipping into the car. The scent of her vanilla air freshener filled the space as she turned on the engine.

She made to leave when her mother’s call came in again.

The phone lit up with her name, and Rosealba slumped into her chair.

Speaking to her mother was the last thing she wanted to do at the moment.

The last thing she needed in her life was a person who would ruin the little confidence she was starting to build within herself.

But then… Rosealba knew she needed to pick. If she didn’t, her mother would never give up calling her. She would keep going, over and over, until Rosealba picked, or lost her mind.

With a slow, reluctant breath, her hands slid against the screen—and her mother’s voice filled the air, sharp and piercing.

“Rose…” Her mother’s voice was loud.

Rosealba sucked in some air. “Good Morning, Mum.”

Mrs. Molvin ignored Rosealba’s greeting, going straight to her reason for calling.

“When are you returning to Poland?”

The tension in the air crackled and Rosealba sat still, not saying a word.

Her mind strayed to the old bad days in Poland. Days of endless pain, emotional trauma, and financial captivity.

“I don’t know…” she finally gave a reply. Uncertain of what else to say to her mother.

The memories alone made her stomach turn.

Mrs. Molvin scoffed loudly, her voice screeching through the phone.

“You think your father has the patience! Rose, your father and I need you to return to Poland and we need no negotiation from you.”

Rosealba let in a deep swallow, her grip tightening against the wheel.

“I am not coming back, Mum. And I don’t care what you and father think about this!”

Silence dropped over the air like a duvet. Sharp and dangerous.

Then Mrs. Molvin spoke—in the usual words that pierced Rosealba’s heart.

“You are running from home because love doesn’t exist here…” A loud mockery tore past her lips.

“You think love exists out there? No, Rose. Love doesn’t exist anywhere! There is no love in this world and you dare not think that you will be so lucky to get one.”

Rosealba’s fingers curled tightly around the wheel, knuckles almost turning pale.

Her chest tightened, pain and anger seething through her heart.

These were the constant words from her mother and every single time those words were said to her, it reduced her confidence, but this time… she wasn’t going to let them ruin the little confidence she was building.

Not again. Not today.

So she reached for the hang-up button and ended the call.

Her boyfriend loved her, and her best friend would go to any length to see her happy. So yes—love existed. Her parents were not just privileged to get one.

They had chosen bitterness. She was choosing something else.

Letting in a deep breath, Rosealba slid her phone into her bag, bringing the car to life afterward.

She took one last look at her building through the rearview mirror—her small safe space, the place she was slowly learning to call home.

She was going to the airport to meet her boyfriend, Lowel. He was one of the people her relocation to Italy gifted her, and she was happy to have him in her life.

He may not be the perfect man, but he was nice to her, and she loved it for her.

And right now, that was enough.

**********

“Let me go!!!”

Aaron’s cry rang through the dark room as two hefty men dragged him in. His face was bloody from repeated beatings, his body weak, yet still struggling.

They threw him to the floor. His pained scream played like a melody to Drystan’s ears.

Aaron looked up, trembling, eyes landing on the polished black Louis Vuitton shoes in front of him. A chill raced down his spine.

The soft sunlight slipped through a half-closed window, catching the cold gleam of the man they called Italy’s nightmare—Alastor Merikh Drystan. The Sovereign. The number one killer. Only thirty, yet feared like a god.

At twelve, he was already drawn to business—and blood. Passion lived in both.

Drenched in shadows, Drystan reclined on a chair, legs crossed, a cigarette between his fingers. Smoke curled upward, but his eyes stayed fixed elsewhere—burning with calm, deadly intent.

Minutes passed. He took slow drags from his cigarette until only the stub remained.

The silence was sharp, almost heavy, until one of the men quietly opened a drawer and lit another cigarette for him. No words needed. Drystan always smoked when he meditated—two, sometimes three.

With narrowed eyes, he took a drag, already picturing Aaron’s cries as he carved off his fingers, slow and methodical. Pain was a lesson.

Once he finished, he dropped the butt on a stainless tray and leaned forward, toward the man cowering on the ground.

A faint smile played at his lips as Aaron trembled at his closeness.

Drystan relished that fear. The begging. The way they shook, hoping for mercy that did not exist in him.

Aaron lay frozen beneath his shadow. It was worse than the silence—being watched by Drystan’s eyes. Those haunting eyes gripped him tighter than any rope.

“Throw him into the turmoil.”

The command was quiet, but lethal.

Aaron’s eyes widened. Before he could speak, he was dragged off—then his voice echoed from the pit, screaming, pleading for forgiveness.

Drystan leaned back, cigarette between his lips, savoring the sound. His tense muscles melted into satisfaction.

Seventeen years of torture had tuned his ear to the sound of agony. It fed something in him. Something dark and bottomless.

He had rules. His life had structure. He was a beast—one he’d grown to love. A beast shaped by design.

“Bring him out,” Drystan said softly.

Aaron’s cries returned with him. Drystan chuckled—a sound so brief, it might’ve been mistaken for a scoff. He never truly laughed. There was nothing to laugh about.

He looked at Aaron’s burnt body. Wouldn’t it be something to watch the rats feast?

“Tie him up.”

A command, instantly obeyed.

Drystan finally stood, approaching the man now tied to a wooden chair. He didn’t even need to be close—his height, his presence, even his cologne, made Aaron flinch.

“Forgive me.” Aaron’s voice shook with genuine regret.

But no one crossed Alastor Merikh and lived to tell the tale. Still, Aaron wanted to. He wanted to survive this, to speak of it—of the king who ruled pain.

Drystan’s eyes never left him as he held out a hand. A man placed a knife into it and bowed before stepping back.

Aaron stared at the blade, lips quivering, throat dry. The look on Drystan’s face didn’t shift—it was cold, focused, feeding off the fear.

“Please… Please, don’t kill me.”

Drystan scoffed.

He leaned down, gripping the chair’s arm, towering over Aaron’s shaking body. His eyes flared with dark fire.

A shadow of a smile twisted his lips.

“Kill?” He sneered, the smile vanishing.

“Killing you would be too easy. I’d rather take each finger—slowly. Then leave you for the rats.”

Aaron’s eyes widened—then the knife plunged into his palm.

Pain ripped through him, his scream tearing from his throat, eyes bulging with shock and agony. Tears streamed as he met Drystan’s eyes—eyes that held no pity, only pleasure.

“No one. Absolutely no one steals from me.”

Each word came with another stab. Over and over. Drystan’s rage built—he wanted to go further. Blind him. Castrate him. Let him choke on his own blood.

But he focused on the fingers. He carved them off, piece by piece, each scream fueling his twisted peace.

Aaron’s veins bulged in torment. Drystan loved it. Every cry. Every spasm. Every drop of blood. He didn’t stop until the man’s hand was no more than a mangled stump.

He stared at Aaron, now limp, barely conscious.

“I haven’t given you permission to die yet. I still want your blood… and the blood of your family.”

Then, calmly, “Release the rats. Let them feed.”

He dropped the knife to the floor. Wiped the blood from his hands with a white handkerchief. Turned and walked away, men following behind.

Aaron’s screams echoed behind him—music to his ears.

This building, this room, this pain… it brought him peace.

*****

For the 4 times today, Alactor’s phone rang and the caller had not changed.

He looked away from his phone, taking a glimpse of what the road looked like. His jaws tightened as he sat impatiently in the car, waiting for one of his errand men to return with the order he had placed. He was just some ride away from the airport.

Unpopular occurrence, but his eyes caught the sight of a lonely lady. No. A stranded one. Blonde hair, average height, slim thick, with a combination of sky blue and ocean green, Doe eyes that sank him in. She stood at the front of her car. An old vintage Fiat, constantly glaring around the sides of her car.

Drystan looked away only for some seconds before he returned his gaze to her direction, again. She looked drop-dead gorgeous than any other human was permitted to look in a jean and satin milk-colored top that had a circular design revealing a glimpse of her cleavage.

His muscle, clenched, subconsciously. He reached a hand for his button and let loose of it, revealing a clearer view is his Jaw.

Drystan swallowed in as the rain began to pour heavily, wetting her satin top and revealing an unhinged sight of her braless nipples, as she hugged onto her arms, trying to find herself a shielding spot. Strands of her ponytail hair, scattered across her face, seething through him, the desire to grip her lengthy blonde hair and have her from behind.