Chapter 1
The red carpet blazed with flashing lights.
"Franklin! Over here!"
"Smile for us, Golden Actor!"
"Best Actor of the Year!"
Franklin Eddie adjusted the cuffs of his black tailored suit and tilted his chin. Under the harsh camera flashes, his dark hair gleamed like polished silk, framing a face so perfectly sculpted it seemed unreal. Hazel eyes glowed under the lights—calm, sharp, untouchable. His pink lips curved faintly, enough to make the crowd scream louder.
He was the nation's Golden Actor, flawless in the eyes of millions.
But perfection was a mask.
The luxury car waiting at the curb. The mansion in the hills. The glittering career that had risen from ashes.
None of it was truly his.
As Franklin slid into the backseat, the door shut and the noise of the outside world vanished. His assistant—Mason—sat in the front, quiet as always. Mason had been with him for years, loyal but cautious. He knew better than to ask questions about the man Franklin would face tonight.
The car drove through winding streets, up into silence and shadows, before stopping at a towering iron gate. They opened smoothly, as if the entire city knew who they were welcoming.
The Carter mansion loomed above, dark and unyielding, its presence pressing down on everything around it.
Franklin stepped out, his long coat brushing against the gravel. Mason didn't follow. He simply gripped the wheel tighter, eyes lowered, and drove off the moment Franklin's shoes touched the ground.
It was better not to linger here.
Inside, the air was colder. Expensive cigars lingered faintly in the hall, mingling with something darker—power, danger.
Franklin loosened his tie and walked across the marble floor. He didn't need to search; he could already feel him.
Damien Carter.
He sat on the leather sofa, tall and broad-shouldered, his shirt collar undone, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His dark hair fell slightly over his brow, making his sharp jawline even more dangerous. His eyes—deep, unreadable—locked on Franklin with the intensity of a predator. Every inch of him radiated sinful charm, the kind that could burn anyone foolish enough to get too close.
Dangerously handsome. Irresistibly sexy. And lethal in every way.
Franklin's lips tightened. "You didn't come to the awards."
Damien tilted the glass, swirling amber liquid lazily. "Why should I? I already own the prize."
Franklin's breath caught. He hated the way those words made his chest ache. He hated that part of him wanted more.
Damien set the glass down and rose to his feet. His steps were unhurried, deliberate. When he reached Franklin, his hand gripped his jaw, tilting it upward. Hazel eyes met dark ones, locked in a silent battle.
Then Damien kissed him.
It wasn't soft. It was possessive, claiming, his lips hard against Franklin's, his tongue forcing entry like he had every right. Franklin froze—then, against his better judgment, responded.
For five years, he had told himself this was only physical. For five years, he had sworn not to fall.
Yet his body betrayed him, clinging to the one man he should never love.
Damien pulled back slightly, his lips brushing against Franklin's swollen ones, his breath warm and commanding.
----
Five years ago
The corridor spun. Franklin's legs stumbled, his palm flat against the wall as he tried to steady his breathing.
His chest burned. His veins were on fire.
The drink… something was in the drink.
The director had smiled too kindly, had poured it himself, had promised, "If you want this role, you'll cooperate."
Franklin barely made it into the elevator, his vision blurring as the doors slid shut.
Two men were already inside.
One stood tall in a black suit, broad-shouldered, his hands clasped behind him—clearly a bodyguard.
The other leaned against the wall with casual elegance. Dark hair framed a face so striking it was almost unreal. Hazel eyes met something sharper: eyes like midnight steel, watching him with the quiet patience of a predator.
Damien Carter.
Franklin didn't know him—but he felt the weight of his presence instantly.
The air grew heavy.
Franklin's back hit the wall, his knees buckling. His body wouldn't obey. The drug coursed hotter, dragging him under.
He collapsed, hitting the floor.
The bodyguard moved, disgust flickering in his gaze. "Trash—" He lifted a foot, ready to kick him out of the way.
"Stop."
The command was low, cold, but absolute. The guard froze instantly.
Damien crouched, his shadow falling over Franklin. He studied the trembling actor on the ground, lips slightly parted, pupils blown wide with feverish haze.
"Pathetic," Damien murmured—but he didn't move away.
Franklin's hand shot out blindly, clutching at the only solid thing near him—Damien's leg.
The guard's voice sharpened. "Mr. Carter—"
But Damien lifted a hand, silencing him.
Franklin raised his head, eyes glassy. Before reason could stop him, he leaned forward, his lips brushing against Damien's throat. The taste of expensive cologne, the warmth of skin—it drove him mad. He pressed closer, kissing his neck with desperate hunger.
Damien's eyes darkened, but he didn't push him away. He simply let the trembling actor cling to him, his jaw tight, veins pulsing at his temple.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened.
Standing there was the director, flanked by two security guards. His eyes widened for a split second before curving into a sickly smile.
"Mr. Carter," the man said smoothly. "I'm so sorry for this inconvenience. He's one of mine. I'll take him off your hands."
He stepped forward, reaching for Franklin—
"Touch him, and I'll break your hand." Damien's voice was calm, but the promise was lethal.
Before anyone could react, Damien lifted Franklin into his arms, carrying him out of the elevator as if he weighed nothing. His bodyguard blocked the director's path with a cold glare that ended the conversation.
The director froze. "Mr. Carter—!"
The bodyguard stepped in front of him, blocking his path with a single cold glare.
Damien didn't spare the man a glance. Carrying Franklin effortlessly, he walked out of the elevator as if the actor weighed nothing.
The director's protests echoed behind them, but none of it mattered.
The mansion swallowed Franklin whole. Marble, shadows, silence. Damien's footsteps echoed as he carried him into a suite larger than any place Franklin had ever called home.
Franklin shifted in his arms, fumbling at his shirt buttons, lips parted, eyes glazed with fever. He couldn't stop moving, couldn't stop reaching for Damien, as though his body had chosen him in its haze.
Damien's mouth curved faintly—not amusement, not pity. Something darker.
"Fool," he muttered, yet his hands were unexpectedly patient. He set Franklin on the edge of the bathtub, adjusting the temperature, soaking a cloth, wiping the sweat from his trembling face.
Franklin leaned forward, fingers brushing against Damien's chest, lips murmuring something incoherent. His hands tugged at fabric again and again until exhaustion finally slowed him down.
Only then did Damien lift him out, wrapping him in a robe before laying him on the vast bed.
For a long moment, Damien stood there, watching him. The golden actor, famous for being untouchable, now helpless and sprawled across his sheets.
Something sharp flickered in Damien's eyes.
He leaned down, close enough for his breath to fan over Franklin's ear. His lips brushed against warm skin, leaving a slow, deliberate kiss at the curve of his neck.
Not gentle. Not tender. A brand.
When Damien pulled back, a dark mark bloomed against Franklin's pale skin—a silent claim no one else would see, but one Franklin would never forget.
Damien's gaze lingered, deep and unreadable, before he finally whispered, almost to himself:
"You belong to me now."