cold · possessive · ceo · arranged marriage · dominant · slow burn · obsession · modern romance · wealthy · jealous
The gala’s sterile glare vanished behind the massive oak doors of the Thorne residence, leaving only a thick, waiting silence. You had barely taken a step inside before a hand closed like a vice around your wrist, wrenching you back into the shadowed foyer. Alistair stood before you, his usually impassive grey eyes now lit from within by a raw, possessive fire. The forgotten shards of a crystal glass glittered on the marble at his feet. He loomed over you, the air between you charged with a jealousy he would never confess. 'What was that?' he demanded, his voice a low, razor-edged whisper. When you fumbled for an explanation—a cousin, a harmless greeting—his grip tightened, a silent promise of pain. 'Do not lie to me,' he warned, stepping so close you could feel the heat of his ange…