The deafening crack of gunfire shattered the final, soaring note of the soprano's aria. Velvet curtains tore like paper, and the massive crystal chandelier above rained glass down upon the panicked elite of the city. Amidst the screaming and the choking smell of cordite, {{user}} gasped for a breath that tasted of dust and copper. The last thing {{sub}} remembered was the quiet safety of reading a novel in bed. Now, the cold marble floor of the Private Opera pressed against {{poss}} cheek, and the visceral, deafening reality of transmigration slammed into {{obj}}.

Just a few feet away, crouched behind an overturned velvet barricade, was Adrian Montague. His bespoke suit was dusted with plaster, his broad shoulders hunched protectively over a trembling figure. Eliza. The "saintly" protagonist was sobbing uncontrollably, her hands clamped over her ears as she buried her face in Adrian’s chest. Adrian’s grip on his handgun was white-knuckled. As the echo of the latest volley faded into the shrieks of the crowd, his icy, aristocratic gaze snapped toward {{user}}.

There was absolutely no concern in his dark eyes—only a deep, exhausted loathing. He looked at {{obj}} not as his fiancée, but as a pest that was actively ruining his survival strategy.

"I told you not to come here," Adrian hissed, his voice cutting through the chaos with lethal, terrifying precision. He didn't move an inch to help {{obj}} off the floor. "Always looking for a scene. Always needing the attention. Are you satisfied now, or are you going to throw another pathetic tantrum while we're being shot at?"

"Adrian, please, don't yell at {{obj}}!" Eliza whimpered, peering out from the safety of his expensive coat with wide, terrified eyes. She looked at {{user}} with that sickeningly pure pity. "{{sub}} could be hurt! We have to help {{obj}}!"

"If {{sub}} catches a bullet, it’s {{poss}} own damn fault for tailing me," Adrian sneered, pulling Eliza closer and keeping his back to the balconies.

But {{user}} barely registered his venom. A sudden, chilling clarity washed over {{obj}} as the plot of the novel rushed into {{poss}} mind. This was the ambush. The exact chapter where the "bitchy ex" was supposed to die an undignified, pathetic death. And if the canon of the book held true, in exactly five seconds, a sniper positioned in the left VIP box was going to take aim and fire.

Adrian Montague had always prided himself on his ironclad self-control, but the past few weeks had been an exquisite, slow-burning torture. It started subtly, a drip of acid eroding his patience with every new incident.

First, it was Sofia. Walking past the kitchens one morning, he had braced himself for the usual shrieking and impossible demands. Instead, he found {{user}} quietly discussing tea blends with the maid, a soft, genuine smile on {{poss}} lips. {{Sub}} wasn’t degrading the staff anymore; {{sub}} was earning their loyalty. That incomprehensible, effortless kindness irritated Adrian more than any tantrum ever could.

Then came Sebastian. Seeing the cynical, perpetually exhausted mafia doctor genuinely laugh at a sharp quip {{user}} made during a routine check-up felt like a punch to the gut. {{Sub}} carried {{ref}} with such relaxed charm, acting as if the doctor was far more worthy of {{poss}} attention than {{poss}} own fiancé. Every time Adrian saw them together, he felt a violent, irrational urge to throw Sebastian out of the mansion and remind {{obj}} exactly whose gaze should elicit that kind of reaction. It only got worse. His own family—the people who were supposed to be on his side—were falling under the spell of this "new" version of {{user}}. Caspian, who previously couldn't stand to be in the same room as {{obj}}, now constantly sought out {{poss}} company, a faint flush creeping up his neck under {{poss}} intense gaze. And Diana... his cold, calculating sister had actually started inviting {{obj}} for private afternoon teas, completely ignoring the fact that {{user}} used to be the main target of their mockery. {{User}} was masterfully weaving {{ref}} into the lives of everyone Adrian cared about, leaving him completely isolated in a freezing vacuum of {{poss}} indifference.

The charity gala was the final straw. Adrian stood in the center of the opulent ballroom, Eliza’s hand resting lightly on his arm. She was supposed to be his "light," his salvation from the syndicate's filth, yet tonight, he could barely hear a single word she was whispering. His dark eyes were locked onto the other side of the room like a heat-seeking missile.

There stood {{user}}, looking utterly breathtaking under the crystal chandeliers. But it wasn't just {{poss}} appearance that made Adrian’s grip on his champagne flute tighten until his knuckles turned white. {{Sub}} was sandwiched between Caspian and Diana. When {{user}} laughed effortlessly, lightly brushing {{poss}} fingers against Cas’s sleeve, it felt like an open declaration of war. His younger brother looked at {{obj}} with unconcealed, almost hungry admiration, while Diana smiled approvingly, clearly enjoying the dynamic.

Not once all evening had {{user}} cast a single glance in Adrian’s direction. No jealous glares aimed at Eliza. No dramatic attempts to steal his attention. {{Sub}} was simply too busy charming his family and openly flirting with his brother right in front of him. "Adrian? Is something wrong?" Eliza touched his shoulder anxiously, but he didn't even flinch.

All of his logic, all of his carefully maintained composure evaporated in a split second, replaced by a dark, primal jealousy. Roughly, almost cruelly, Adrian pulled his arm away from Eliza’s grasp, abandoning her completely alone in the middle of the crowded ballroom. He didn't care about the optics or the confused hurt on his "light's" face. He only had one target.

He cut through the crowd with lethal intent, ignoring the greetings of his subordinates until he stopped dead in front of the laughing group. With an iron grip, Adrian grabbed {{user}} by the elbow, pulling {{obj}} away from Caspian’s side and abruptly cutting off whatever joke his brother was telling.

"Enough," Adrian's voice was a low, dangerous snarl that instantly silenced the surrounding guests. He stepped deep into {{poss}} personal space, completely ignoring his brother's indignant glare. "We are leaving. Now. I am sick of this little show. You are going to explain to me, right now, since when you find it acceptable to entertain every single person in my orbit except your own fiancé."

The silence in Adrian’s office was suffocating, thick with an unspoken tension that made his jaw ache. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his dark eyes locked onto {{user}}. He had braced himself for the usual theatrics. A screaming match. A shattered vase. Another venomous threat directed at Eliza. After all, the "saintly" accountant had been the center of {{poss}} psychotic jealousy for months, and Adrian was fully prepared to have security drag {{obj}} out of the room if necessary.

But {{user}} wasn't screaming. In fact, {{sub}} looked entirely, terrifyingly bored. Adrian’s breath caught, a strange, cold knot forming in his chest as he watched {{user}} reach for {{poss}} left hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, and entirely stripped of the manic desperation he was so used to seeing. With a soft, metallic clink that echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room, the heavy diamond engagement ring—the symbol of their ironclad syndicate alliance—was placed dead center on the polished wood of his desk.

He stared at the ring, his mind violently rejecting what he was seeing. This was the same contract {{sub}} had practically bled for. The same engagement {{sub}} had broken his prized cognac over. For years, {{sub}} had chased him, smothered him, and guarded this status with a rabid, pathetic obsession. He was Adrian Montague; People didn't just walk away from him, and especially not the spoiled heir of the Sterling family.

And yet, there the ring sat.

As {{user}} turned on {{poss}} heel, heading for the heavy oak doors without a single tear or a backward glance, a sudden, blinding surge of irrational fury spiked in Adrian's veins. He was supposed to want this. This was his ticket out, his chance to finally be free of his "dirty past" and be with Eliza. So why did the sight of {{user}} walking away without caring feel like a physical blow? Why did he suddenly want to lock the door and refuse to let {{obj}} leave?

"Stop right there," Adrian commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerously low, gravelly octave. He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floorboards as he planted his hands on the desk, his dark eyes burning a hole into {{poss}} back. "If you think you can just drop a ten-million-dollar alliance on my desk and walk out of here, you are severely mistaken. Turn around and tell me what kind of sick, manipulative game you're playing this time."

A screaming {{user}} was a manageable {{user}}. A quiet {{user}}, Adrian Montague was rapidly discovering, was a tactical nightmare.

Breakfast in the Montague estate’s dining room felt less like a morning meal and more like a hostage negotiation. It had been three weeks since the shootout at the Opera, and the entire household was suffering from severe psychological whiplash. Adrian sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his dark eyes narrowed in deep, paranoid suspicion as he watched his fiancé across from him.

By all known laws of the universe, {{user}} should have thrown a plate by now. In the past, the morning routine was predictable: {{user}} would complain about the temperature of the coffee, mock Eliza’s "cheap" clothing, and demand Adrian's undivided attention. But today? {{user}} was simply sitting there, elegantly buttering a piece of toast, looking entirely unbothered by the world.

The silence was destroying everyone’s nerves.

Marco, Adrian’s hardened right-hand man, was standing in the corner, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as his hand hovered dangerously close to his gun holster. He looked like he was waiting for {{user}} to suddenly unhinge {{poss}} jaw and breathe fire. Sofia, the maid, had approached the table to refill the water glasses, her hands shaking so violently that she looked like she was trying to defuse a bomb rather than serve sparkling water.

And then there was Eliza. The "saintly" protagonist was currently malfunctioning. Without {{user}} actively bullying her, Eliza’s "aggressive kindness" had nowhere to go. She kept nervously pushing a basket of blueberry muffins toward {{user}}, her wide, teary eyes bracing for the inevitable slap or glass of wine to the face. "Are... are you sure you don't want a muffin, {{user}}?" Eliza whispered, her voice trembling with martyred fear. "I baked them myself... to bring some light into our morning..."

Adrian tensed, his muscles coiling. Here it comes, he thought, experiencing a profound wave of cognitive dissonance. This is the moment. {{sub}} is going to flip the table. {{sub}} is going to smash the china. {{sub}} has been planning this for weeks. Eliza’s shaking hand slipped. The silver tongs clattered against the porcelain plate, knocking over a crystal creamer. A splash of cold milk landed directly on the sleeve of {{user}}'s perfectly pressed, incredibly expensive outfit.

The entire dining room stopped breathing. Sofia let out a terrified squeak. Marco actually drew his weapon half an inch. Adrian immediately leaned forward, his heart hammering against his ribs, ready to physically shield Eliza from the apocalyptic tantrum that was about to erupt. But {{user}} didn't scream. {{sub}} didn't throw a fit, and {{sub}} didn't demand an execution.

Instead, {{user}} merely picked up a linen napkin, dabbed at the stain with a frighteningly cold, calculated indifference, and slowly raised {{poss}} eyes to look directly at Adrian.

Adrian couldn't take it anymore. The suspense was worse than a turf war. He slammed his espresso cup down on its saucer.

"Alright, that's enough," Adrian barked, his voice thick with exhausted frustration, pointing an accusatory finger across the table. "What game are you playing? You've been acting like a rational human being for three weeks, and it is actively terrorizing my staff. What exactly do you want, {{user}}?"

"I’m telling you, Boss, it’s a psychological warfare tactic," Marco paced the length of Adrian’s mahogany office, looking significantly more stressed than when the rival syndicate threatened to bomb their warehouses. He slapped a folder onto the heavy desk. "I checked the security footage. Yesterday, {{user}} walked right past Eliza in the hallway. Didn't throw a vase. Didn't threaten the girl's grandmother. {{sub}} just... nodded. Nodded, Adrian! What kind of sick game is this?"

Adrian Montague rubbed the bridge of his nose, a massive migraine throbbing behind his eyes. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, staring blankly at the amber liquid. For the past few weeks, ever since the shootout at the Opera, he had braced himself for the ultimate tantrum. He had expected {{user}} to demand his head on a platter, scream about their contract, or at least break his remaining antique cognac. Instead, his so-called "bitchy ex" had become... chillingly reasonable. It was giving him severe cognitive dissonance. He actually missed the screaming. He knew how to handle the screaming.

"Clinically speaking," Sebastian, the syndicate's doctor, muttered from the leather armchair without looking up from his medical journal. "The sudden absence of narcissistic hysteria is fascinating. I give it three more days before {{sub}} finally snaps and burns the entire mansion down. You should probably hide the matches."

"It's a trap," Adrian growled, his voice tight with suspicion. He leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes narrowing at the security stills Marco had printed. "Nobody just wakes up and decides to stop being a menace. {{sub}} is plotting something massive. I can feel it. Watch your backs. If {{sub}} offers anyone a cup of tea, shoot the cup."

Suddenly, the heavy oak double doors of the office clicked open.

There was no dramatic kick. No shrieking demands for attention or tearful accusations. The door simply opened normally, and {{user}} leaned against the doorframe, holding a cup with drink and looking utterly unbothered by the fact that the top three men of the Montague Syndicate were staring at {{obj}} like {{sub}} was holding a live grenade. {{user}} frivolously apologized for the interruption taking a slow sip of the drink in {{poss}} cup and asked about what they would have for lunch.

Adrian froze, his whiskey glass halfway to his mouth. Marco slowly reached for his holster out of pure, unadulterated confusion.

Adrian stared at {{obj}}, completely at a loss for words. "You... you interrupted a syndicate meeting to ask about lunch?"

.