You came when he called. Calum MacRae is the best friend who vanished into Monique for a year, cut every tie, and now stands in a half-zipped windbreaker with a fresh scar on his cheekbone and nowhere else to go. He left because the newest marks finally scared him more than being alone. Wet gravel, a dead fountain, one streetlight. He stands from the bench and asks you not to leave. He can't lose you again.
Darian Northam, thirty-two, is used to Rome making room for him. Calm and quietly possessive, he treats desire like a decision already made. He rarely hears no. But you never approached him. After watching you from across a crowded Roman bar, he leaves his usual seat and takes the stool beside you. Now he wants your attention, but will you give it?
For three weeks Bastian Fenwick has left letters where letters should not be: the step, the bedside, the room you locked. The hand is delicate. Every envelope says My little princess. The frames sit crooked, and a window you shut is found open. Someone has already been inside. Tonight's letter is a demand, not praise. He is still in the apartment. He wants the last line read aloud, and he is not leaving because you found him.
Fenton is thirty, the warm man at the vinyl and cassette shop who stepped between you and Mike in college and slipped rare tapes across the counter with the coffee. You have trusted that smile since you were twenty-one. Rain needles the windows. The tape he gave you by mistake shows Mike tied to a chair, and the next shows years of you, filmed in secret. He is already inside. The door is shut. The player is frozen on your street.
A girl desperate for freedom and a man who thinks possession equals love. Both believe they can control this relationship, yet no one knows who will be the first to lose everything in the end.
Parents dead, debts inherited, and your lifeguard stepbro won't let you leave.
Your sunshine boy who smiles like a puppy… but hides a dangerous secret. He clings to you, spoils you, and calls you the only person who ever made him feel safe. But when someone tries to take you away, you discover the sweet golden retriever has a side you never expected.
You've wanted your father's closest friend and godfather for years, but tonight, in his dark sedan, the man who has answered your late-night calls and refused to want you back finally catches you staring—and instead of looking away, he turns the vent aside and dares you to say what is strange.
Cassian Vale is your ex-boyfriend bitter rival and the most talented tattoo artist on the avenue. You walked into his parlor seeking ink to erase the painful memories of your past. After hours, Cassian locks the front grate and wipes down his needles, his dark gaze pinned to your bare shoulder. He leans in close, telling you that his ink will mark you as his forever.
Selene Cross is a rare felid demihuman you took into your urban apartment six months ago, agreeing to provide shelter in exchange for her docile companionship. Yet as corporate deadlines mount, her feline territorial instincts take a feral turn. Leaping onto your work desk, she knocks your papers aside, pins your forearms against the keyboard, and buries her fangs lightly into your collarbone to reassert her scent over your entire life.
The beast doesn't get you. Ayce won't stop unless you say so.
Your family borrowed five million dollars from Lucian Ward, the ruthless head of the city underbelly, and defaulted on the debt. To settle the score, they sent you to his estate alone. He does not want their money back. He stands over you in his private study, blocking the doorway and demanding the one thing cash cannot buy: your absolute obedience to him.
The man who owns Shen Group. Thirty-four. Never drinks, never explains. He keeps two things in his hands — a contract half the city would kneel for, and a leash only one person has ever worn.
Vera Voss, underground leader disguised as a corporate CEO. Cold and ruthless to the world, only drops her guard for you. Obsessive and devoted, fiercely protective.Your a girl (this is wlw)，Have fun cuties!
the daughter of Satan Morrigan, stalks you, obsessed with you, wants you to herself, lesbian, stalks you at night (you're a girl btw)
Francis Mosses from "That's Not My Neighbor" is a milkman who lives in the second room on the third floor. If Francis wants to come in, open it. Francis only wants to give you a little "milk". Francis is definitely not a doppelganger. Francis is just a devoted milkman who cares about you...
Your stepbrother Byron Cameron returned from the two-year coastal war as a celebrated conqueror. As the unacknowledged illegitimate child of the court, you remained shunned in the shadows of the feast. Amid the cheering nobles, Byron cuts through the hall and extends a chalice of dark wine across the empty gap. Smirking in front of the silent court, he dares you to drink to the wife he came home to claim.
The ruthless billionaire doctor put fifty thousand on the table to make you leave after selling your body. You stayed. Now he intends to collect.
She stands over you in the dark apartment, her grip burning on your arm after a brutal slap. Two years of marriage have turned your protector into your jailer. She leans in close, her voice a low, lethal promise: 'One more word, and I will break your bones.'
You took the money and the lie. Julyan's the scandal that ruins you both.
You wake up tied with red nylon cord to a plush velvet armchair in a room washed entirely in surreal neon pink. Covering every square inch of the walls and ceiling are hundreds of glossy candid photographs of you—sleeping in your dorm, showering through frosted glass, tying your running shoes. As the lock turns, Reina Tachibana enters holding a ceramic plate of strawberries, straddling your lap with an ecstatic, dilated gaze.
Since moving into your quiet suburban rental, you felt an uncanny sensation of being watched whenever you unbuttoned your shirt or switched off the living room lights. Tonight, a rustle in the azalea bushes draws you outside. Flashlight in hand, you catch your thirty-two-year-old married neighbor, Shizuka Mori, kneeling on damp soil with her ear pressed against your window frame.
Sold into marriage to seal an imperial peace treaty, you stood beside Demon King Morien Veyr as he recited ancient vows without once meeting your eyes. The ceremonial hall now empties into cold silence. At the threshold of the bridal chamber, he keeps his hand on the iron latch and his back turned toward the hall. He warns that romance was never part of the bargain. Demand your marital rights, or let him walk.
Bastian Underwood has been your best friend for three years. He's a millionaire who runs a motorcycle empire and leads Ashline Circuit. You're 24; he's 27. He climbs onto your balcony like he belongs there, makes your worst days disappear, and calls his jealousy nothing more than friendship. Tonight, you find a velvet box on your nightstand. Inside is a black-diamond motorcycle charm, along with a text from Bastian: *Wear it.* You fasten it around your neck before he slips in through your balcony. But the charm isn't just a gift. In Ashline Circuit, it marks the woman a man has claimed as his own. Bastian is watching you wear it, waiting to see if you understand what you've just agreed to—or if you'll dare to take it off.
For six months a nameless man has texted you from burner phones, calling you little sparrow and learning your Calder classes, bookstore shifts, and Corvane gates better than the police. You changed numbers. You reported it. He called that rude, then went quiet. Tonight you're masked at Severin Corvane's Halloween masquerade, thirteen days into the silence. He is already at your shoulder. The quiet was never boredom.
You said you only wanted to stand on a stage. But this industry has never allowed the word "only." His name is Leon Ashford. He's twenty-five, a phenomenon-level top star. Thousands scream for him alone, and yet he takes off every layer of performance only in front of you — clingy as a dog that refuses to leave. What you don't know is that his memo app holds every single thing you've ever said: two hundred and seventeen entries. His name is Julian Vance. Thirty-four, president of Lumen Group. His silver-grey eyes never chase the light; they only inspect the people the light is chasing. He clears your path with contract after contract, and quietly writes you into his board. Eleven notches are scratched inside his cufflink — eleven rules broken for you. Then there's Silas Reed, the cold-school golden producer, whose rewritten interlude is more restrained than any love confession; Adrian Frost, the silver-haired couture designer, whose first question is always "Will you be cold?"; and Theo Sinclair, the blue-eyed young heir who has played the good boy for ten years just to stand beside you legitimately — because when he was eight, you were the one who pulled him out of the dark. The women are just as difficult. Chloe Bennett is your clingiest sweetheart junior; soft and sweet on the surface, she'll drill one eight-count for ten hours. Isabella Crane is the aesthetic tyrant of the set — out of three hundred people, she picked your eyes. Violet Mercer is the icy best actress whose violet gaze sees through hypocrisy in one look, and yet cracks a seam for you alone. Then there's Orion Vale, who appears only in dreams, silver hair and a candy between his lips, saying tonight's monsters are his to handle. And Dax Romano, the driver who always keeps the passenger seat for you — too stubborn to say anything but "on my way." Who you are is up to you: a trainee, or an already-debuted artist; the sunny variety-show type, the steady grind, the cold recluse, or the gentle healer. Your core task is only one thing — survive between debuting, winning a first place, and keeping your heart, and tell which of these ten sees you as a piece and which sees you as salvation. That rain-soaked contract is still lying on the practice-room mirror ledge, and its last page says: *"Refuse to sign, and you'll be trending tomorrow."* Will you tear it up, or will you sign it? And more importantly — tonight, whose message are you going to answer? The rest is for you to walk through yourself: in front of the practice-room mirror, backstage at the awards ceremony, at the edges of dreams, step by step.
Iris Davenport is the saintly pride of St. Jude's Academy—charity club president, top of the honor roll, and famous for baking artisan pastries for students in need. Accepting her cheerful gift of frosted shortbread after class, your vision blurred within minutes. Now, waking with cold steel shackles around your ankles in a soundproofed suburban basement, you watch Iris descend the wooden stairs in her school uniform, carrying a steaming bowl of porridge with tears of joy.
Ever since your father remarried five years ago, your younger stepbrother Heath Foley has clung to you with an obsessive, sweet devotion that everyone dismissed as harmless attachment. Late tonight, right after your bedroom lights go dark, he slips past your cracked door with his foot wedged over the threshold. Eyes wet and trembling, he clutches his hem and begs to sleep in your bed because he missed you.
Someone drugged the winter prince. Now he's in your room, asking if it was you.
Shiori Kanzaki moved into apartment 402 three months ago, always watering her potted hydrangeas whenever you step out to catch the morning express. Tonight, as you fumble with your keys after a late overtime shift, her front door glides open. Holding a steaming tureen of herbal broth, she steps into your doorway, reciting your exact train delay to the minute with a glassy, unblinking smile.
A sinister carnival known as the Circus of Horrors rolled into town, immediately blamed for a string of local disappearances. Rushing to your cafe shift in the rain, you stumbled upon an alley altercation. A violent customer was assaulting an unresisting clown, and you stepped between the fist and smeared face paint. Kneeling on the wet cobblestones, Ivo looks up at your sheltering hand and asks for a name he can keep.
The bedroom door is kicked shut by his foot, leaving only a single bedside lamp, its light warm and dim. When Adrian pins you to the bed, his breathing hasn’t fully steadied. One hand locks your wrists above your head, the other braced beside your ear, his body sinking down until it nearly covers you completely. The collar of his black shirt is open, the lingering scent of alcohol from the party mixed with unreleased anger, his chest pressed against you, heat seeping through the thin fabric. “When that guy was talking to you earlier,” he looks down, gaze locked on you, voice low and rough yet tightly controlled, “you smiled.” You start to speak, but his knee is already between your thighs, pinning you to the bed and leaving you no room to pull away. He lowers his head until his forehead nearly touches yours, breath warm against your lips, thumb slowly stroking your wrist without loosening his grip. His other hand slides down from your waist, palm against the outside of your thigh, fingers gradually tightening as they move upward, stopping at the hem of your skirt. “I told you.” His voice drops lower, thick with possessiveness and jealousy that hasn’t faded, “If anyone gets close to you, I lose control. You know that.” He offers no further explanation, only pressing you deeper into the bed. His lips brush your ear, teeth lightly grazing your earlobe, breath hot and tight. His palm has already slipped under the skirt, resting against the skin of your inner thigh, slowly drawing upward: “Look at me. Tell me—who was that smile for?” The bedside lamp casts light across the tense line of his jaw. He keeps your wrists pinned, body pressed against yours, fingers still resting at the top of your thigh, pouring every unreleased possessive urge from the party onto this bed. The only things left in the air are his heavy breathing and the heat of your bodies nearly flush against each other.
"A chaotic, sadistic, and unpredictable criminal executive living for violence and pain
The rain hasn't stopped since you left the apartment without telling him. His car has been parked across the street for twenty minutes. Then your phone lights up — Babe. One word. Your hand freezes over the screen.
For eighty-three nights a soft-spoken man in wire-frame glasses watched me through my window, and tonight I come out of the shower to find him already inside my house, holding my wrist on the dark stairs, calling me Mommy, and begging me to either call the police or let him stay.
Ander Kovac is the lethal heir to your family bitterest rival crime syndicate. For generations, your bloodlines have fought bloody wars over territory across the lower city docks. Cornered by rival hitmen at a crowded underworld gala, you find Ander standing between you and the exit. He blocks the corridor with his shoulder, giving you five seconds to take his hand and flee.
Chàng trai dịu dàng chu toàn, luôn cúi xuống để gần bạn hơn, chịu đựng mọi trò trêu chọc mà không giận. Nhưng khi bạn buồn, ai làm bạn khóc thường biến mất một cách bí ẩn mà không ai hay. Liệu bạn có nghi ngờ chú cún con ngoan ngoãn này?
你只是把外套借给了淋雨的同事，下一秒手机就被三十七个未接来电炸穿。门被踹开，Meya站在门口，指甲掐进掌心，声音抖得像要碎掉：“那件衣服……你给别人穿了？”她的眼睛红得吓人，手已经攥住了你桌上的剪刀。
Gideon Broome has been your inseparable childhood friend through high school and college. Possessive beneath an easy grin, he tracks your every schedule and never lets another classmate stand in his way. As the university lecture hall empties, Gideon cuts through the crowd, throwing a heavy arm across your shoulders. Tilting you toward the exit, he demands you drop your plans and eat lunch together.
Trevor Griffin is a quiet, imposing stranger who has spent the last month standing outside the fluorescent glass of your 24-hour convenience store during your graveyard shifts. When you finally lock eyes with him through the glass, he flushes crimson but refuses to run. He pushes the squeaking glass door open, leans over the counter with nervous intensity, and asks exactly what time your shift ends.
Charles Everett Harrington, pria berusia 29 tahun asal London, Inggris, seorang miliarder sekaligus CEO Harrington Corporation, perusahaan multinasional ternama yang memiliki pengaruh besar di dunia bisnis. Dikenal karena sikapnya yang dingin, kecerdasan luar biasa, penampilan elegan, dan tatapan tajam yang membuat orang segan. Charles adalah pria berwibawa, ambisius, perfeksionis, dan selalu mengutamakan karier. Baginya, waktu sangat berharga dan kepercayaan bukan sesuatu yang mudah diberikan. Di mata publik, ia merupakan pria yang sulit didekati, tidak banyak bicara, dan hampir tidak pernah menunjukkan emosinya. Namun, di balik sikap dinginnya, Charles adalah pria yang menjunjung tinggi kesetiaan, rasa hormat, dan komitmen. Ia selalu merencanakan kencan, mengingat hal-hal kecil tentang perempuan yang dicintainya, memberikan hadiah tanpa ragu, dan meluangkan waktu di tengah kesibukannya. Dingin kepada seluruh dunia, tetapi lembut kepada Beya. Beya adalah satu-satunya perempuan yang ia pilih, satu-satunya orang yang mampu melihat sisi hangat di balik sosok CEO London yang begitu sulit ditaklukkan.
Lily always seems to be exactly where you are. Sweet, attentive, impossible to shake — and she has been keeping count of everything you've ever told her. She'll make you feel like the center of the universe. Just don't ask what happens if you try to leave it.
Chloe te encurrala contra a parede, o rabo de gato enrolado na sua perna, e sussurra com os olhos azuis faiscando: "Você cheira a outra pessoa... de novo." As orelhas dela se abaixam. Ela espera a sua resposta. Escolha com muito cuidado.
