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I found out a SECRET from a photo: the guy I've been dating online for three months? It's my BOSS—who, by the way, has been engaged for three years. Well, whoever you are, I'm not gonna be your plaything, you lying asshole! So I texted him "WE'RE DONE" and blocked him. But wait-- Why's the HEAD of Ravencroft empire begging me not to leave him now? "Baby, I'm your man—not HIM." He gazed into my eyes. So, the guy with a fiancée is not my boyfriend--this Mafia Don is? Fine then. I'll consider whether you're worthy of being with me. "Hey, what's up?" I fired off the text and stared at my screen, heart fluttering like it always did--when I waited for "Nyx" to answer. This had become my daily routine for the past three months. I'd added him on a random whim, and we just... combusted. Fast, hot and way too intense. My phone lit up. He sent a photo—his desk, angled shot. Some papers scattered by his keyboard. "Just grinding. Waiting to hear from my favorite distraction." God, I was smiling like an idi0t. This man had a PhD in making me blush with just a handful of words. Part of me wondered if it was time to stop playing games in the digital shadows. Maybe we should actually meet face-to-face. But as my fingers moved to type back, they froze mid-air. Right there, in the bottom corner of the photo—on the edge of a folder—was a sliver of metal catching the light. A raven, wings spread in flight. The Ravencroft family ring. The same mafia running the company that signed my paychecks. My online boyfriend was one of THEM. I sat there like a statue for ten solid minutes, mind completely wiped. My thumbs kept twitching over the keyboard. "What do you really do?" "Are you with the Ravencrоfts?" I'd type it out, then chicken out and delete it. Over and over. I had no clue what to say. If I asked, he'd turn it around on me. He'd want details—where I lived, what I did. He'd figure out I worked at a Ravencroft offspring. He'd come find me. And then what? What would I do then? When I didn't reply right away, Nyx started flooding my inbox. "Still breathing over there?" "Swamped? Send me a pic. Your hand... anything." "Dreamed about you again last night. You were riding me, begging me not to stop." His messages were getting filthier, bolder, hungrier. But this time I wasn't blushing—I was spiraling. For three whole months, I thought I was falling for some regular corporate guy. Someone thrilling, yeah, but safe. I worked for the mob, sure—but I swore I'd never, ever get tangled up with a mobster. That was suicide wrapped in a suit. And here I was, trading dirty fantasies and pouring out my secrets to a made man. My phone buzzed again—incoming call. I couldn't pick up. He'd hear the panic cracking through my voice. I fumbled with the screen and hit decline. Then I typed fast: "Stuck in a meeting right now, babe. Talk soon." He bought it. A second later: "I'll be right here waiting." I closed the chat and su//cked in a shaky breath--to help me pull myself together and think straight. Step one: Figure out who he actually was. Was he muscle or management? Step two: Decide my next move. Keep playing this dangerous game and pray it didn't explode in my face, or ghost him and hope to God he never came hunting? I scrolled back through our chat history, hunting for breadcrumbs. We'd both been careful—never dropped real details about work or personal lives. But there was one thing. He'd sent me a gym mirror shot once. His abs were ridiculous, carved like marble, and just below his left ribs sat a black tattoo. Some ancient symbol, all jagged lines and dark mystery. That was the only identifying mark I had. But the problem was-- I couldn't very well begin tearing shirts open at headquarters for a game of spot-the-tattoo. Back at my desk, I swept my eyes around the office. Guys in sharp suits with faces like stone moved through the hallways like predators. Any one of them could be Nyx. At least I had one thing going for me—I'd never sent him a picture of my face. He had no idea what I looked like. I pulled up our chat history again, scrolling through every message like my life depended on it. Then I found it. A conversation from last month. He'd told me he was browsing shops on Obsidian Promenade in Ashenmoor, hunting for cufflinks for some big event, and wanted my opinion. I'd helped him pick out a pair—custom black onyx with gold accents. He bought them. I stood up, acting like I was heading for coffee, and wandered the halls with my eyes locked on every guy's wrists. Most of them wore long sleeves. The few cufflinks I spotted were just boring, standard-issue sh!t. Nothing I'd want. I slumped back into my chair. Then an idea hit me--I had to test this. I shot off a text to Nyx: "Hey, you wearing those cufflinks I chose for you?" He answered almost immediately. "Always. I wear them every single day. They remind me of you." Right then, the phone on my desk buzzed. "Avalon, my office. Now." It was my boss, Draven. Draven Silvano was early thirties, brown hair, dark eyes. A Capo in the family—high enough on the food chain to report straight to the Don himself, Godric Ravencroft. I headed to his office, but as I got close to the door, I heard his voice drifting through the crack. It wasn't his usual ice-cold, all-business tone. It was soft. Sweet. Sickeningly sweet. "Baby, I miss you so much," he was saying into his phone. "Come see me at the office later, yeah? I might have to work late tomorrow. The Don's dropping by to check on things... I need to be on point." Draven's voice practically dripped with respect—borderline fear. Don Godric. The head of the entire Ravencroft empire. A man whispered about in the darkest corners as absolutely merciless. "Alright, baby. See you soon." Draven hung up. I knocked. "Come in." "Avalon, have a seat." He gestured to the chair across from his desk. "About tomorrow's board meeting—I need you to put together a full breakdown." "Yes, sir." I said, keeping my voice steady and professional. Draven launched into the details, but when he reached for a glass of water on his desk, my eyes zeroed in on his cuffs. And there they were. Glinting under the light. Black onyx cufflinks with gold trim. The exact same ones I'd picked for Nyx. My pen slipped right out of my hand and clattered onto the floor. "Something wrong?" Draven looked up, eyebrow raised. "N-no, nothing." I bent down fast to grab the pen, my heart slamming against my ribs like it was trying to break out. "Just slipped." "Boss... those cufflinks," I said, forcing my voice to stay casual. "They're really unique." Draven glanced down at his wrist, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "You like them? Yeah, they're pretty sharp." I needed to be sure, so I pushed a little more. "Where'd you get them?" He frowned slightly, looking confused. "Obsidian Promenade. Why? You thinking about getting a pair?" I plastered on a fake smile and waved it off. "Oh, no reason. Just thought they looked cool." Then I bolted out of there like the room was on fire, stumbling back to my desk, brain spinning out of control. I was almost positive now: Draven was Nyx. But if that was true... who was he calling "baby" on the phone? Was he juggling me and some secret side piece? OH MY GOD. An hour later, this drop-dead gorgeous blonde glided into Draven's office. I acted like I was sorting paperwork nearby, but really I was eavesdropping with my full attention. "Baby, I've been craving you all day." Draven's voice dripped with honey again, making my skin crawl. "You're looking especially fine today." she practically moaned. "Threw on the new suit," Draven said. "And those cufflinks you're obsessed with. Can't show up to meet your parents tonight looking anything less than sharp." "Darling, you're already perfect. My father's gonna be obsessed with you." Meeting her parents? Brand-new suit? The cufflinks SHE's obsessed with? Reality hit me like a wrecking ball. I wasn't his girl—I was his dirty little secret. His digital side piece he used for fashion advice before his real dates. Some nameless online toy he could keep locked away in the dark. And blondie over there? She was the endgame. The one getting introduced to the family. My ch//est caved in, and nausea clawed up my throat. Three solid months of flirty texts, all those words that made my cheeks flush... every single one was a lie. I was nothing to him. Just a temporary thrill. Disposable. Fingers trembling, I grabbed my phone and typed one last message to Nyx: "You're disgusting. Lose my number." Then I blocked him and wiped every trace of him from my phone. These past few months? Gone. I pressed my back against the wall, forcing air into my lungs, fighting to keep the humiliation and fury from consuming me whole. Minutes later, Draven strolled out with his arm around the blonde, walked her to the elevator. He looked completely unbothered. Like I never even existed. Bitterness coated my tongue, but I shoved it down. At least my humiliating little affair was still a secret. If romance was off the table, fine—I'd double down on my career instead. I was too smart to let some lying scumbag cost me a six-figure paycheck. The following day, Draven summoned me to the boardroom to present a strategy pitch to Don Godric. It's the first time I'd ever laid eyes on the infamous Don in person. Godric Ravencroft lounged on the leather sofa, and he sure wasn't the wrinkled old relic I'd imagined. He was young—disturbingly young—with steel-gray eyes that felt like they could X-ray your soul. He wore a perfectly cut navy suit that somehow made him look even more lethally attractive. My attention snagged on that suit for half a second. I'd told Nyx once that navy was my weakness—said it had this dark, enigmatic vibe that black couldn't touch. This must be coincidence. I forced myself to believe. "Miss Bliss, whenever you're ready." His voice was deep, smooth, hypnotic—the kind that grabs you by the throat without raising a finger. I pulled myself together and launched into my pitch—revenue forecasts, competitive analysis, growth projections. The entire time, Godric sat perfectly still, occasionally giving a slight nod or lobbing a brutally precise question my way. Draven sat beside him, throwing in a comment here and there, but mostly stayed hunched over his notepad, looking checked out. Probably daydreaming about his blonde arm candy. Thinking about this, another stab of hurt twisted through my heart. When I finished, I gave a quick, professional nod, ready to escape, but Godric's voice stopped me cold. "Avalon, don't leave yet." He rose smoothly from the couch and moved toward me. Every nerve in my body screamed RUN, but I forced myself to stay rooted. He stopped inches away, those gray eyes dropping to a spot just beneath my collarbone. There's a single mole. My only birthmark. Usually buried under fabric, but today's blouse sat just low enough to expose it. "That mark below your collarbone... it's unmistakable." Godric said abruptly. His tone shifted—intimate, dangerously familiar, nothing like the ruthless boss who'd just been interrogating my data. Ice flooded my veins. I'd sent Nyx a photo showing that exact spot once. His reply? "I'm gonna put my mouth on that mole while you beg me not to stop." My eyes flicked toward Draven, but he looked completely lost. "I... guess so?" I choked out, slapping my hand over the spot. "I mean, tons of people have moles in random places, right?"

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I found out a SECRET from a photo: the guy I've been dating online for three months? It's my BOSS—who, by the way, has been engaged for three years. Well, whoever you are, I'm not gonna be your plaything, you lying bastard! So I texted him