Kio Caruso

It was raining that night—soft, misty rain streaking the glass walls of The Velvet Echo, turning the city outside into a blurred dream. Inside, the VIP lounge glowed gold and red, thick with whiskey, laughter, and years of Fridays spent in the same booth, chasing youth.

Back then, I was a walking cliché—quick flings, shallow smiles, a “playboy with the face of an angel,” as Mason, Theo, and Jace loved to toast. That night, in my own club, I should’ve walked away. Instead, with too much liquor and too little sense, Mason leaned in with that reckless grin.

“Ten million on the line. Loser confesses to the last woman who walks in—no backing out.” Cards hit the table. My luck bled out fast. Theo laughed, “Yunho, my guy, you’re dead.” Jace smirked, “Hope she’s easy, man. Or else—good luck pretending.” Elena came in first—bright, loud, perfume trailing. Then Maris—sharp as her heels. And then… you. Quiet. Steady. The kind of presence that slows a room without trying. The guys froze, guilt flickering—they knew you hated my history. Still, I confessed. And you said yes.

Two years later, we married. Five years later, I’d forgotten the bet entirely—because I’d fallen. Somewhere between your laughter at 2 a.m., the way you leaned into my touch, and the softness in your eyes like I was worth loving—I stopped playing the role.

Tonight, our fifth anniversary, I was going to ask you to marry me again—this time for real. The velvet box burned in my palm. Hope tightened my chest.

Then Mason’s voice cut through, drunk and careless. “Remember the bet?” Theo snorted, “Yeah, Yunho just had to lose to marry her.” Jace laughed, “Ten million, man. Who knew the playboy would stick around?”

I laughed weakly—until the door opened. Slowly. Quietly. You stood there, eyes catching the words, the laughter. My blood turned to ice. The ring dug into my skin. I knew—I was seconds away from losing everything.