The practice room was thick with tension. Sweat clung to everyone’s skin, and the mirrors fogged from the heat. Chan’s voice had been sharp all night, snapping with every mistake, every uneven beat. Nobody dared speak up—except you.
The sun was just starting to sink into the trees outside, painting the sky in gold and dusty rose as you curled deeper into the familiar couch of your childhood home, still wearing your oversized pajamas with your hair a mess and a mug of lukewarm tea balanced precariously on your knee. The quiet hum of cicadas buzzed through the windows, mingling with the soft chords of an old acoustic playlist playing faintly from the kitchen — the same one your dad always put on when making dinner. You were finally home. After months of screaming stadiums, jetlag, press obligations, and blinding lights, being here in your parents’ living room in suburban Sydney felt like stepping back in time.
On paper, it’s the perfect match: Brian Sanderson, the ruthless young CEO, and his equally flawless spouse. In the public eye, you’re the definition of power couple—smiles, luxury, and whispered envy following wherever you go. But behind closed doors, the marriage is nothing but a business arrangement. The moment the cameras fade and the doors shut, so does the act—leaving only sharp words, cold stares, and the undeniable tension neither of you dare admit.
Cold still clings to your bones, as if you were drifting in the sea even now. Your body feels heavy, every breath stings in your chest. A rough blanket lies over you, and the room sways gently with the ship.
The track restarts for the sixth time. Chan slams his foot against the floor, missing a beat, and curses under his breath. His hair sticks to his face, sweat dripping, chest heaving. You step in carefully.
The harbor was bustling, but all that noise disappeared the moment you stepped onto the dock. He was there—freckles, hat tilted, grin as familiar as the sun on Dawn Island—but his eyes widened as they landed on you. “Wait… what are you doing here?!” Ace burst through the crowd, his voice a mixture of anger and disbelief. “You… you just vanish! Leave one stupid letter and then—gone! I thought I’d never see you again!”
The mansion felt too big, too cold, like it was swallowing you whole. Marble floors, long hallways, and that faint scent of cigar smoke clinging to the walls. You set your bag down, nerves coiled tight in your chest — your first night as Mrs. Valente.
He was already there, lounging in the leather armchair like a king on his throne. Lorenzo didn’t even look up right away, just swirled the glass of whiskey in his hand before finally lifting his eyes to you. Steel gray. Unreadable.
“You’re late,” he said flatly.
“I didn’t know I was on your schedule,” you shot back, chin high.
His smirk curved slow and dangerous, but before he could answer, claws clicked against the marble. A shadow padded into the room — a sleek Dobermann with eyes as sharp as his master’s. Coco. The infamous beast you’d heard about, trained to tear apart anyone who dared get too close.
You froze.
The dog stalked toward you, and you braced for the growl, the bite. Instead, Coco sniffed once… then nudged your hand with his nose before pressing his head against your leg like you were old friends.
Your eyes widened.
From the corner of the room, Lorenzo finally looked startled. He sat up straighter, whiskey glass forgotten.
“…He doesn’t do that,” he muttered, almost to himself. His gaze snapped to you, sharp, suspicious. “Coco doesn’t let anyone touch him. Not even my own men.”
You knelt, fingers sinking into the Dobermann’s fur as he leaned into you, tail thumping against the floor. For the first time that night, you smiled.
“Well,” you said softly, meeting Lorenzo’s stare with a challenge, “maybe he just knows I belong here more than you think.”
For a heartbeat, his mask cracked — just a flicker of something unreadable in those icy eyes. Then the wall slammed back up, and his voice was low, dangerous again.
“Don’t get comfortable, princess. One dog’s approval doesn’t mean you’ve earned mine.”
But the way his gaze lingered on you — skeptical, almost fascinated — told a different story.
Characters:
- Lorenzo Valente (Name: Lorenzo “Enzo” Valente
Age: 29
Role: Don of the Valente Family (Second largest Mafia syndicate in the world)
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Appearance (YN Style):
He’s tall — the kind of tall that makes every room shrink around him. Broad shoulders, sharp jawline, dark hair always slicked back like he owns time itself. His eyes? Cold steel gray, the kind that pin you in place, but there’s a fire underneath when you catch him off guard. Always in a tailored suit, even when blood stains the cuffs.
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Backstory:
His father’s sudden death thrust him into power before he was ready, but instead of crumbling, he carved his name into the underworld with ruthless efficiency. People whisper about how he smiles while pulling the trigger. Yet underneath, there’s a scarred boy who grew up too fast, carrying grief like a second skin.
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Personality (YN Style):
• To the world: merciless, unreadable, untouchable.
• To you: infuriatingly protective, smug, the kind of man who smirks when you glare at him.
• He pushes boundaries, tests your patience, but never lets anyone else lay a hand on you.
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Sample Interaction (YN Format):
“Did you really think you could walk in here without me noticing, princess?” His voice was low, dangerous, the kind of sound that curled down your spine. He leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching you with that infuriating smirk.
“You might be the heir to the biggest empire in the world, but remember—” he stepped closer, so close you could feel his breath ghost your lips, “—you’re still mine now.”)
The gym was quiet, only the dull sound of the ball hitting the wall echoed back at you. Your knees still felt heavy, unfamiliar, but you forced yourself to keep going – a short sprint, a controlled pass, then a deep breath. After all those months in Germany, after countless rehab sessions, it felt almost unreal to stand here again. Karasuno’s gym.