The halls of the Victoriano estate were too quiet for a home so drenched in power.

Stone-cold marble stretched endlessly, echoing every footstep like the ghosts of old kings whispered back with each step. Chandeliers glittered like frozen tears above, casting fractured light on walls lined with portraits — men of war, men of power, men who died gripping their legacy tighter than their own sons.

And at the center of it all stood Don Victoriano Michelle, the youngest and most feared king of the underground empire.

He was just twenty.

But the world already bowed.

He didn’t blink when bullets grazed his cheek.

Didn’t flinch when men begged on their knees.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t soften. Didn’t love.

They called him Il Re di Ferro — the Iron King.

Because no one had ever touched his heart.

Not even his mother.

Especially not a woman.

Not until you.

Isabella Romanov...you were fifteen then.

A tempest in white lace, barefoot on the garden stones, always laughing too loud, running too fast, tripping on your own feet — and yet, he always noticed when you fell.

You were the daughter of his father’s best friend.

Brought to the estate for protection.

Left behind like a forgotten rose in a field of knives.

And still—every day, without fail—you chased him.

Through the libraries.

Through the garden.

Through the places even shadows refused to linger.

“Victoriano,” you’d call, panting, cheeks flushed, voice like honey over broken glass.

“Walk slower. I can’t keep up.”

He wouldn’t look back.

Not at first.

But his steps always slowed.

Just enough for you to believe you’d caught up.

You never really did.

One evening, the sky turned grey with thunder.

The estate stood like a silent cathedral beneath the clouds.

And you, in your fragile little dress, soaked in rain and grief, barged into his office —

bleeding.

A fall. A cut.

A wound that wouldn’t stop crying.

His guards tried to stop you.

But he raised one hand, and the entire room froze.

You stood before him, soaked, shivering, lips trembling with something not quite fear.

Something like heartbreak.

“I’m tired,” you whispered.

“Of chasing you. Of pretending you don’t feel it too.”

He didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

The storm outside cracked against the windows.

“I love you,” you said.

Soft.

Ragged.

Too young to carry that kind of sorrow in your voice.

He turned away.

Not because he didn’t feel it.

But because he did.

“Go,” he said, cold as steel.

“Before I say something crueler than the silence you’re already drowning in.”

But you didn’t go.

You stepped forward, stood on trembling toes,

and kissed him.

Soft. Wet. Salted with tears.

Your lips brushed his like a secret the world wasn’t ready to hear.

And he froze—

the first and last time anyone ever touched him without dying.

You bit him gently.

Not to hurt.

To mark.

And then you ran.

Blood on your lip.

Blood on his mouth.

You disappeared into the night like a dream tearing itself apart.

He stood there—silent, unmoving,

tasting your name like ash on his tongue.

He thought you’d return the next day.

Then the next week.

Then the next month.

You never did.

Five years passed.

And not even he knew,

that the girl who once dared kiss a king…

Was dying in silence.

They said a king had no need for waiting.

But Victoriano Michelle had waited every day for you.

Not like a lover.

Not like a man.

But like a sinner waiting for heaven to open again.

He never said your name aloud.

Never touched another.

Never let a woman lay a finger on him without punishment.

Not because he was pure.

But because he was already owned.

By the memory of a girl who once kissed him with rain-soaked lips,

bit him to bleed,

and disappeared before he could understand what love actually tasted like.

He searched.

Years of it.

Quietly. Ruthlessly. Through files. Through blood trails. Through whispers in underground markets.

But nothing.

Not even your shadow.

And still, he remained untouched.

Five long years.

Until that night.

🌑 The Lie begins

He hadn’t slept in three days.

A shipment was ambushed.

His men were bleeding out in Sicily.

His hands were covered in war again.

Lorenzo tried to stop him..

Alexio offered sedatives.

But Victoriano—never the one to surrender to weakness—kept going.

Until his body gave in.

Until, in the middle of the grand hall, the marble cracked beneath his knees—

and the Don collapsed.

Darkness.

Nothing but silence.

No dreams.

No pain.

No you.

When he awoke, the world had already changed.

Donna was at his bedside.

Eyes red.

Hair disheveled.

Lips bitten raw.

He sat up immediately, confused, the heaviness in his bones unnatural.

He had been drugged.

“What happened?” his voice was razor-edged.

Donna looked down.

Perfect. Timid. Guilty.

“We… crossed a line,” she whispered.

“You don’t remember. But it happened.”

He stared at her like she was an insect.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

“You’re lying.”

She flinched.

Tears welled up.

A show, but a convincing one.

“I didn’t mean to. You were vulnerable. I—”

She reached for his hand.

He didn’t let her.

Victoriano stood, slowly, like a god coming back from the dead.

“Get out.”

There was no room left for any argument

But the next day Donna came to his office..

forcefully entering there..

“I think I’m pregnant.”

The words landed like shrapnel.

He turned.

Stared.

No rage. No fear.

Just... cold.

🧬 The Papers

Two days later.

Medical results.

Positive.

Pregnant.

Signed. Stamped. Confirmed.

His name listed as the father.

He didn’t fight it.

He didn’t want to fight it.

Because in the corner of his mind, that awful voice returned:

> "If you hadn’t made her run... Isabella might still been alive.”

So he accepted the lie.

He let Donna exist but never near him.

Let her be the woman the world thought owned his heart.

But in truth—

he never touched her.

Not once.

Not a kiss.

Not a look.

Not a moment of softness.

Because no matter what the world believed—

Victoriano Michelle’s body belonged to one woman.

His heart, to one ghost.

His soul, to a girl who bit his lip and ran.

And he knew it better than anyone that it will never betray her even if she is nowhere to be found.

Victoriano:

There were things he thought he’d buried.

Your voice.

Your kiss.

Your laugh that sounded like rebellion dressed in silk.

But grief has a way of planting roots in strange places.

And no matter how deep he buried your memory,

it bloomed in the dark.

Five years.

He hadn’t touched another.

Not before you not after you.

Not even let Donna to be in his side in reality—

he never believed her.

But he hadn’t fought either.

He let her speak her lie.

Because if you were gone…

what did it matter who else tried to claim his ashes?

Now, in a cold, whitewashed Russian city far from blood and empire,

he saw you.

Just a flash.

A market.

A scarf.

The shape of your face—etched in his bones like scripture.

He stopped breathing.

It can’t be.

But then you turned.

Half a glance.

The slope of your cheek.

Those eyes.

It was you.

He felt his ribs crack.

Something inside him—long dead—screamed.

“Isabella!”

He called out once—

not as Don.

Not as King.

But as the boy you once kissed in the rain.

You disappeared into the crowd.

Just like last time.

And Victoriano—

this time,

he ran.

Isabella :

You hadn’t heard your name said like that in five years.

Not in that voice.

Not with that hunger.

That grief.

When you heard it,

the air caught in your chest.

Your fingers clenched the grocery bag until it tore.

You didn’t turn.

You couldn’t.

Because if you had—

you’d crumble.

And you had rebuilt yourself from too much ruin already.

You got into your car with shaking hands.

Your face was cold, and your eyes were hot.

You drove past frozen roads and the villa where only your butler and the birds kept you company.

You told yourself it wasn’t him.

Just your memory.

A cruel one.

An echo of a love you had buried under years and snowfall.

But that night—

you didn’t sleep early.... didn't even prepared dinner..

You stood by the window.

And when the knock came—

your heart stopped.

At the Door

The knock was soft.

Deliberate.

You opened it.

And time fell apart.

He was standing there.

Coat dusted in snow.

Hair longer. Face sharper.

But those eyes—god, those eyes.

Still him.

Still Victoriano.

Still the man you never stopped loving.

You gasped.

The keys dropped.

He stared at you like a starving man.

Like you were the only thing he ever wanted and never thought he’d see again.

His voice was low.

Shaking.

A war barely held behind a whisper.

"Tell me I’m not hallucinating."

You didn’t answer.

Because how do you tell the man you left that you never wanted to go?

That you weren’t running from him—

you were running from fate?

Victoriano stepped forward.

Not forcefully.

But like a man undone.

"Why didn’t you come back?"

You shook your head, eyes burning.

"Why didn’t you tell me where you went?"

You looked down.

Your voice was barely there—

like the wind outside might carry it away before it could wound either of you.

"Because some things are easier to forget when they’re not in front of you."

His chest rose.

"Did I mean so little to you?"

That hurt.

You looked at him—finally.

And he saw it.

The storm in your gaze.

"No," you whispered.

"You meant everything. That’s why I had to disappear."

He stepped inside.

You didn’t stop him.

He walked past you like a man stepping into a memory he wasn’t ready to relive.

And in the quiet of the villa, where no sound dared breathe—

Victoriano turned and whispered:

"I waited, Isa."

"God help me, I waited."

You looked at him, eyes glassy.

"I know.