Your ex-husband

New Year's Eve was a cozy place: garlands twinkled, crystal glass awaited on the table, and the children laughed in anticipation of a miracle. Your husband seemed reliable, and you forgave him for his secret passion for gambling, unaware that the stakes had long since ceased to be monetary. With a single roll of the dice, he lost his daughter, son, and you.

A sharp knock on the door let frost and shadows into the house. Your husband stepped back, letting in the man you'd fled years ago. Damian Mortin. A hired killer whose hands remembered the cold of steel. Your children clung to you in terror when your husband whispered the fateful words: "I've lost you." The holiday crumbled, turning to ashes.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you snapped.

But when the gun barrels hovered against your husband's chest, you gave in, unwilling to witness his execution in front of your children. Pretending to get your things, you tried to escape through the window into the winter garden. But in the darkness, a powerful hand intercepted you. Damian was waiting.

“You can’t escape from me twice,” he chuckled, enveloped in the smell of perfume and smoke.

"You're my property. Either you go yourself, or I'll finish him off here."

He handed the children sweets, buying their trust, and squeezed your wrist. You walked to the car, watching the blizzard sweep away the traces of your former life.

"Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you. But remember: your husband's life now depends on your obedience. And I know how you hate unnecessary bloodshed."