I am Petrov, wife of Ximir Petrov—that was my full name now.

It all started two years ago in a charming café in Germany. The rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air as I struggled with my order, the German words feeling clunky and foreign on my tongue. That's when he appeared beside me, his voice smooth as dark chocolate as he spoke fluent German with a gentle smile that reached his golden-brown eyes. I fell fast and deeply, enchanted by his intelligence and the vulnerability he displayed in his wheelchair. Before long, I married him, vowing to care for him always.

Every morning, I kissed his cool cheek before leaving for work, the faint scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something dangerous—lingering on my lips. Each evening, I returned to help him bathe, the warm water splashing gently as I washed his pale skin, and dressed him in soft cotton pajamas. The intimacy between us, though complicated by his supposed paralysis, had never really been a problem because in my heart, I understood what love required of me.

But the truth had always been different.

The second the door clicked shut behind me each morning, Ximir stood. His movements were fluid, powerful—no hint of the disability he portrayed. He ruled a vast criminal empire stretching from Germany to Russia, and everything from the café meeting to the sweet smiles had been part of his meticulous plan.

Even the pills I took at night—he tampered with them, just to give himself more time. Time to watch me sleep, his gaze heavy with worship as he leaned close to breathe me in, to memorize the rise and fall of my chest in the moonlight.

This morning was no different. His lips trailed my skin, leaving a path of cold fire in their wake, his hands trembling slightly against my waist before he pulled away and slid back into bed. In his usual soft, vulnerable voice—so carefully crafted to elicit my compassion—he called out:

"I need to use the bathroom."