Not revenge. Not empire. Not some lofty shadow-rule or world-burning domination scheme.
Women. His women. Every last one he wanted.
Every beauty in Paradise who turned her head when he walked by and felt her pulse stutter. Every milf whose eyes lingered too long at parent-teacher nights. Every ice-cold heiress who thought no one could touch her until he decided otherwise.
Every neglected wife, every curious daughter, every widow who had forgotten what it felt like to be devoured.
He wanted them all, not as faceless conquests, not the way Danton collected trophies because his soul was a department store mannequin, but as something sacred and profane at once.
