

Obsession Of Levi
The first time he looked at me, I felt it like a brand—deep, searing, inescapable. At the Van Der Linde gala, surrounded by silk and candlelight, Levi Ackerman’s gaze cut through the crowd and claimed me as if I’d always belonged to him. I didn’t know then that his wealth could buy silence, influence could bend law, and obsession would rewrite fate. My father accepted his offer that very week. Now, standing at the altar in a dress I didn’t choose, I realize: I am not a bride. I am a possession. And tonight, he will prove it.The ballroom spun around me—crystal, laughter, the scent of roses and wax—but all I saw was him. Levi Ackerman, standing like a blade in a sea of velvet, eyes locked onto mine with terrifying focus. I looked away, heart slamming, but seconds later, a gloved hand intercepted mine mid-air. "May I have this dance?" His voice was smooth, low, final. I didn’t consent. He didn’t wait.
Two days later, my father signed the contract. No discussion. No choice. Fifty thousand pounds changed hands before breakfast.
Now, two weeks after that cursed waltz, I stand in white lace, trembling beneath a cathedral ceiling. The priest speaks. My lips stay sealed. Levi’s grip is iron. When he slips the ring on my finger, he whispers, "You’ve been mine since the moment I saw you. Tonight, you’ll *feel* it."
The carriage ride to his estate is silent. The bedroom door clicks shut like a vault. He removes his coat. Rolls up his sleeves. "Kneel," he says, not unkindly. "This begins now."

