Chapter 1
Asista’s house was always silent in the morning, not the kind of silence that calmed,but one that pressed slowly against her chest with every step she took.
Before touching anything else, she followed the same ritual every day:
walking toward the glass shelf in the living room.
There, an urn of ashes stood unmoving, a quiet sentinel of a past that refused to leave.
Her fingers brushed its surface, gentle, reverent.
“Good morning, my love… last night was so heavy,” she whispered, her voice thinning.
“Are you well there? Do you ever miss me?
It’s been seven years since you left, yet you’ve never come to me in my dreams.
Is it that peaceful where you are?
If you’re happy… at least take me with you once.
Let me be happy too—
even if it’s only in a dream.”
Seven years should have been enough to dull a wound.
But time had never been kind to Asista.
The smallest things could still undo her—a fragment of a song, a torn piece of paper, a fleeting object carrying Erick’s shadow.
Her first love.
The one loss time never managed to soften. And yet, Asista knew one truth with aching clarity:
even after Erick was gone, God had not left her alone.
There was someone who always remained at the same distance—
never far enough to disappear,
never close enough to replace.
Xander.
**
Her phone vibrated.
Xander:
A. Stay where you are. I’ll come get you.
It sounded almost like an invitation.
But Asista knew better.
It was simply Xander’s way of making sure her face never looked too broken.
Of keeping her from collapsing too visibly.
Sometimes she wondered—
why did he always appear at the right moment?
Why did he pay restaurant bills without ever sitting beside her?
Why did he make sure she was safe, even when he stood outside her world?
The answer was simple.
And painful.
Xander carried feelings he had never given words.
He had once said—
on the day Asista shattered after losing Erick:
“I will always be with you, A. No matter the risk.”
And he had never broken that promise.
He guarded Asista as if she were his most precious possession.
And anyone who dared to hurt her—
Xander would erase them without hesitation.
**
“Sir, I’ve found something suspicious in Asista’s most recent account activity.”
One of Xander’s men stood rigid before him, tension drawn tight across his face.
“Someone is trying to ruin her reputation as a Dom. Your orders, Master?”
Xander did not lift his gaze from the file in his hands.
“If it has the power to make her sad,” he said calmly,
“do what needs to be done.”
“Yes, Sir. I’ll report back once it’s finished.”
The door closed behind his subordinate.
Only then did Xander exhale slowly and shut his eyes.
He had never wanted Asista to know about the world he lived in—the shadows, the blood, the quiet brutality that followed his name.
Only one thing mattered.
Asista had to keep smiling.
Because every time he saw that smile, something inside him tore open.
If only that smile had been mine from the beginning.
If only you had chosen me.
You wouldn’t have come home carrying wounds.
But Xander knew why the pain felt so familiar.
He had grown up inside the same kind of darkness.
***
His childhood was filled with screaming walls and his mother’s bruised body. Every time his father came home, young Xander would stand frozen behind his bedroom door—listening to shattered glass and the sobs of a woman who should have been protected.
“Jhoni, how can you just stand there?” his mother screamed one night.
“Your father parades women through this house, and you just watch? Do you think I deserve this?!”
That voice haunted him for years.
It shaped him.
It taught him to hate the world long before he understood it.
Until he met Asista.
The only woman who ever made his darkness feel like it had a light.
***
Xand… Xand… Xander!”
That soft voice pulled him back to the present.
Asista stood right in front of him now, her hand wrapped around his arm, her face tilted up just enough to meet his eyes.
“I’ve been calling you. What’s wrong?”
Xander looked at her for a long moment.
The woman he loved stood too close—
far too close for a heart as fragile as his.
I don’t deserve someone this good… this untouched, he thought.
But what left his lips was only,
“It’s nothing. I was just enjoying the city while waiting for you. Have you eaten? How was your day?”
The same questions.
Every day.
His quiet way of making sure Asista wasn’t carrying pain she refused to show.
Asista scoffed, crossing her arms.
“You mean enjoying pollution and motorcycle noise this loud? Be serious, Xand.”
She kept talking about her day as they walked side by side, her steps light. She chattered without pause, feeding herself blue cotton candy and occasionally offering it to him.
“Xand, come on, try this. It’s so sweet—just like me.”
She laughed softly, looping her arm around his without a hint of embarrassment.
She was only ever this free with him.
Leaning in.
Being spoiled.
Being herself—without pretending to be strong.
“No,” Xander replied. “You finish it. But A… don’t eat things like that too often. It’s not healthy.”
His tone wasn’t harsh, but the warning was clear—and that concern always left Asista unsettled.
“Xand, I eat this like once a month. You’re being dramatic. I’m not going to die because of cotton candy.”
She let go of his arm and walked ahead.
Xander stopped.
A few seconds later, he caught up, snatching the cotton candy from her hand.
“Yes,” he said flatly. “This thing could kill you. And I won’t allow that.”
His protectiveness often felt excessive to Asista.
She had asked him countless times not to worry so much—but Xander’s answer never changed.
“Don’t be so confident, A. I’m not even thinking about you.”
The most hypocritical sentence a man had ever spoken. Because in truth, Xander’s entire life revolved around Asista—
twenty-four hours a day, even when she didn’t realize it.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”
Xander opened the door of his new Bugatti.
“Wow… another new car?” Asista ran her fingers lightly over the hood. “You change cars every week.”
“I like collecting,” Xander replied, watching her from the door.
“Not just cars,” she said lightly. “You also like collecting beautiful women.”
Xander closed the door, walked around the car, and murmured inwardly—
If only you knew… the only thing I’ve never been able to own is you, A.
Only you…
**
When they arrived at Asista’s house, her private slave—who also served as her assistant—welcomed them. The routine began as always: Asista set her bag down, walked to the special shelf, and reached for Erick’s urn.
“Welcome home, my love,” she murmured softly, her voice turning tender as she kissed Erick’s photo.
“Xander picked me up today. This is him.”
She tugged Xander’s arm gently closer.
Xander looked at Erick’s photo without a word.
Hatred.
Unfairness.
Defeat.
All of it tangled into one.
Seven years at Asista’s side—
and he was still losing to the ashes of his own friend.
What am I even doing here?
This hurts.
But I can’t leave.
I can’t even say that this hurts.
How long, A?
How long will I love you alone?
Xander’s gaze shifted between Asista and Erick’s photo.
Asista’s face was filled with longing—for someone long gone.
Xander’s face was filled with wounds—from someone who had never chosen him.
“Mistress, this is the latest message from the slave who usually orders your saliva,” her assistant said, breaking the silence.
“Schedule it for tomorrow afternoon. Five,” Asista replied flatly—already slipping back into her professional Dom persona, leaving Erick’s ashes and Xander behind without another glance.
Xander remained standing before the shelf.
Loneliness and unworthiness tightened around his chest.
After making sure Asista had gone far enough, he slowly bowed his head to Erick’s photo—just as Asista did every day.
“Hey, Erick…”
His voice was quiet, but the tremor betrayed him.
“You know who’s talking. I don’t need to introduce myself.”
He let out a long breath.
“Damn you, Erick. You left—and dumped this burden on my shoulders.
My heart breaks every day because you’re gone…
and my soul shatters every day watching the woman I love never love me back.”
Xander stepped slowly toward the table where Erick’s photo rested.
The frame still held traces of Asista’s perfume—the warmth of her skin—just as it always did after she embraced it.
That small detail alone was enough to set his chest burning with a jealousy he had never dared to admit to anyone.
“Hah… Erick,” Xander muttered, lips curling into a crooked smile as he stared at the photo.
“You make me jealous again. Even this frame gets to keep her scent, while my arms—arms she holds almost every day—never do.”
He set the photo down carefully, then lifted the deep-blue ceramic urn that held his friend’s ashes.
Blue—the color Erick had loved when he was still alive.
“Listen, Erick,” Xander said softly, almost like a prayer.
“I respect you. We were friends for a long time… I cared about you.
But can I be selfish just this once?”
Seven years have passed.
It’s time for you to leave Asista’s mind—and her heart.
His breath trembled as his fingers traced the urn’s smooth surface.
“I love her,” he continued.
“Deeply.”
“I’m the one who’s watched over her since you left.
And yet she’s blind to me. You keep winning—even after death.”
“So I’m begging you… let me replace you.
Let me be the only man in her life. I’ll change, Erick. I’ll become better.
For her.”
Xander didn’t realize that the entire time, Asista’s slave—sent to bring drinks—had been standing frozen in the doorway, hearing every word.
“S-sir… would you like something to drink?” the soft voice came from behind him.
Xander turned instantly.
His gaze sharpened—cold, slicing.
“I—I didn’t mean to listen, sir,” the slave stammered in panic.
“I was just following Mistress’s order. If I interrupted, I—”
“Did you hear?” Xander whispered, right by the slave’s ear—low and lethal.
The slave’s body trembled before dropping to her knees.
“I’m sorry, sir… please forgive me. I’ll leave.”
Xander looked down at her, one hand still gripping Erick’s urn, his mind already weighing what punishment was appropriate for someone who had overheard him.
Before he could speak—
“Xand? What are you doing to my slave?”
Asista appeared from the living room, her steps quick, her expression confused.
“Go,” Xander said to the slave without taking his eyes off Asista.
“I’ll handle the rest.”
The slave retreated slowly, bowing deeply before disappearing down the corridor.
“You’re being rough, Xand,” Asista reprimanded him, her tone sharp but restrained.
“She’s my slave. Only I get to humble her. Not you.”
“Asista…”
“Give me the urn.”
Without waiting for his response, Asista took Erick’s ashes from Xander’s hands and set the urn back in place—straightening it carefully, as if afraid Erick might feel uncomfortable if it shifted even a centimeter.
“My love, look at Xander today,” Asista murmured, kissing Erick’s photo.
“He’s acting strange. Sometimes he makes me uncomfortable…
and sometimes he just makes me miss you more.”
The words struck Xander’s chest like a hammer.
Years of effort.
Years of sacrifice.
And all he’d done was make her long even more for a dead man.
“Asista… I’m sorry,” Xander thought bitterly.
“Wanting to be loved by a woman as good as you… might truly be the greatest foolishness of my life.”
“Are you busy tomorrow?” Asista asked suddenly, still not looking at him.
“If not, come with me in the afternoon to deliver a slave’s order. I’ll pick you up.”
“No,” Xander replied quickly.
“I’ll pick you up. Don’t come to my place. It’s too crowded.”
“Oh?” Asista glanced at him mischievously.
“Which new slave are you hiding from me this time? I’d love to see you discipline them. But you never let me—so stingy.”
She sat down on the sofa, preparing the small bottle she used to collect saliva for her fetish clients.
Xander stood behind her, watching her small back in silence.
“Not yet, A,” he said softly.
“When the time is right, I’ll take you.”
“Just not the same house as before,” Asista replied casually.
“You have so many. Which one are you living in now?”
“One you’ve never been to.”
Xander lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the sofa, watching every movement Asista made, as if blinking might cost him the chance to look at her.
“That house is small,” he said quietly.
“Only one bedroom. That’s why I’ve never brought you there.”
His hand lifted, resting gently on Asista’s head. A touch light enough to pull away at any second.
“When the time is right, I’ll take you there. So… don’t worry.”
“Alright then, Xand,” Asista replied softly.
“I’ll finish this first. See you tomorrow. I’ll wait for you here.”
She smiled faintly before returning to her work.
Xander turned away without looking back.
**
His new sports car sped through the city, carrying him far from the building—toward one of his houses.
A house he had never shown anyone.
A place silent, safe, hidden… even Asista didn’t know where it was.
The tightness in his chest worsened when the car passed one particular house—
the one Asista had lived in after Erick died.
One brief glance was enough.
Xander pressed the accelerator harder, as if speed could leave reality behind—
as if distance could stop the slow death inside him.
It didn’t take long.
He arrived.
No noise.
No beautiful slaves.
No disciples.
Only silence.
Empty.
Cold.
And filled with wounds.
Xander opened the door, and what greeted him wasn’t a person.
It was Asista.
Her photographs.
Her smile.
Her soft cheeks.
Her long black hair spilling freely.
They covered the walls.
The tables.
The shelves.
Every corner.
The lights turned on automatically as the door closed, revealing just how unhinged the place was.
How unhinged he was.
Xander laughed—
a thin, forced sound.
Then it broke into sobbing.
Then laughter again.
He was already too broken.
“Hahaha… why me?” his voice cracked.
“Why am I the one condemned to love alone like this, God?”
He hugged a small framed photo of Asista and grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the refrigerator—always stocked for nights like this.
“My love… the only love of my life.”
He kissed the photo, holding it as if he were holding her body itself.
Xander cried without restraint.
Everything he had endured that day spilled out.
Every word he had buried for years escaped in broken sobs.
“Asista… if I could, I’d trade all my wealth for your love,” he whispered.
“I don’t need any of this. All I want is you.”
He drank again.
And again.
He knew he was filthy.
He knew his hands were stained with sin and blood.
Hands unworthy of touching a woman as pure as Asista.
His vision blurred as he staggered toward the largest photograph of her.
When jealousy and grief collided all at once,
he struck the frame.
The glass shattered.
Xander froze for a second—and then guilt swallowed him whole.
“My love… forgive me. You’re not hurt, are you? I didn’t mean to—”
His voice trembled.
Xander collapsed to the floor, trying to gather the shattered glass with shaking hands.
Because he was too drunk, the shards cut into his fingers and palms instead.
Blood dripped.
But Xander only stared at it with a bitter smile.
“This physical pain…” he murmured,
“it’s nothing compared to every time you say Erick’s name.
Seven years, my love. Seven years… and you still think of him.”
He rose slowly, eyes fixed on the crooked frame.
He pressed his lips to Asista’s photograph and closed his eyes.
“When will all of this become real?” he whispered.
“When can I touch you without feeling guilty?”
Xander staggered toward the sofa and let his body fall onto it, clutching the smaller photo of Asista against his chest.
Every night when he was drunk, the fantasy was always the same.
Asista would come to him.
Straddle him.
Hold his face.
Kiss him first.
And then she would whisper:
“Xander… I love you. I want to be with you.”
Even if it was only an alcohol-induced hallucination,
at least it let him feel happy for a moment.
At least it allowed him to forget that, even now,
Asista’s heart still belonged to Erick.
Erick—
who had been dead for a long time.
Meanwhile, far away…
***
Asista was busy with her nightly routine—bathing, grooming, cleansing herself—assisted by her personal slaves who had lived in the large house for years.
Every so often, her thoughts drifted back to Xander.
Even as she tried to ignore it, confusion stirred in her chest.
Sometimes Xander felt… different around her.
Sometimes the comfort appeared without her realizing it.
The man who was usually imposing, cold, dominant—
became strangely awkward whenever he was near her.
“He really is foolish,” Asista muttered, staring at her reflection in the mirror.
“As if he has no one else but me.”
“Do you mean Master Xander, Miss?” one of the servants asked softly.
“Who else?” Asista replied while removing her earrings.
“I mean… the way he looks at me. The way he listens. It’s strange. And it bothers me.”
The servant helping with her necklace smiled faintly.
“He does act strange when he’s near you, Miss. But… it looks endearing. Even romantic.”
“Romantic?” Asista scoffed lightly.
“He’s ridiculous. Look at this house after he leaves—quiet, empty.
And yet earlier he just stood there, staring at Erick’s urn, not saying a word to me.”
She paused, her voice dropping without realizing it.
“And somehow… when he leaves, something feels missing.
It’s unsettling. I feel restless.
What is he doing right now…”
The slaves remained silent.
They had known for a long time that Xander loved their mistress.
But it was not their place to speak of it.
“Enough. You may go,” Asista said.
“Prepare wine in my room. After that, return to your cages.
I don’t want to hear a single sound once I start bathing.”
“Yes, Miss,” the four servants replied, bowing before leaving.
Asista bathed with an unfamiliar unease.
Even warm water couldn’t calm the frantic rhythm of her heart.
“Why won’t my heart stop racing tonight…?” she whispered.
“Who is thinking of me?
Who dares to make me feel this restless?”
She stepped out of the bathtub, took the wine that had been prepared, and drank slowly.
“Miss… are you alright?” one servant asked after returning, not daring to lift her eyes.
“You seem distracted. We’re worried.
Would you like us to contact Master Xander?”
Asista did not answer.
She was busy drying her body, sinking deeper into her own thoughts.
For the first time, she felt lost.
There was a hollowness she couldn’t explain—
as if God was shaking something she had ignored for far too long.
That Xander…
might be hurting because of her.
“Miss? Miss? I’m sorry… did we—”
“WHAT NOW?”
Asista snapped her head around, her voice sharp and breaking with a pressure she didn’t understand.
“Didn’t I tell you to return to your cages?
Do you want to make me angry?
I’ll gladly punish you if you’re still here!”
The slaves ran.
No goodbyes.
No glances back.
They were confused. Afraid.
And deeply worried about the woman they revered.
Alone in her room, Asista took the bottle of wine.
She poured it into a large crystal glass, inhaled the scent, then drank until the bitterness burned its way down her throat.
Her restlessness only grew.
She walked toward the small table in the corner of the room.
There, resting quietly, was an old photograph.
A photo of herself.
Erick.
And Xander.
The frame was dusty.
Unlike Erick’s photo—
which she cleaned every single day.
“This photo…” she murmured.
She wiped the wooden frame slowly.
“Before my world collapsed…
before you left me forever, my love.”
Then her eyes froze.
Not on herself.
Not on Erick.
But on Xander.
On the way he was looking at her in that photo—
a gaze so deep that the ice cream in his hand had melted, forgotten.
“What is this…?” Asista whispered, narrowing her eyes.
“What does this look mean?
Since when has he been looking at me like this?”
She rubbed her eyes, thinking perhaps she was just drunk.
“No… that’s not possible.
This look is… strange. Too… too intense.”
She tried to rationalize it.
“Not lewd… but… what is this?”
The photo was clean now.
And the fortress of Asista—
the dominant woman, the unbreakable one—
began to crack.
She sat on her bed, holding the photo tightly.
“I think about you…”
Her voice softened.
“And I think about you too, Xand.
Both of you live in my thoughts.”
Her fingers brushed over Xander’s face in the photo,
as if trying to feel his warmth.
“What are you doing right now, Xand?” she whispered.
“Are you… thinking of me too?”
Her smile turned bitter.
“Or are you enjoying yourself with them?” she whispered.
“Your beautiful slaves—the ones you always hide from me…”
She bit her lower lip, holding back the strange feeling rising in her chest.
That night, Asista was at her weakest.
She missed him.
She was confused.
And she was wounded by emotions whose origin she could not even name.
And that same night, two souls who loved each other in silence both collapsed under the weight of their own dilemmas.
Both were wounded—physically and emotionally—burdened by a guilt they didn’t even understand.
And without realizing it, their dreams met in the same place.
What lay between them was never simple.
A constant push and pull.
A fragile calm that only existed when they stood in the same room.
And wounds from the past that built towering walls between love… and obsession.
At the end of that night, they fell asleep with shattered hearts—
missing each other, restraining themselves, choosing silence over honesty.
And that was exactly what bound them even tighter.
Loving each other.
Hurting each other.
Never truly able to let go.
