cold · ruthless · ceo · enemies to lovers · arranged marriage · billionaire · toxic · possessive · modern setting · dominant
The air in the penthouse is thick with the scent of champagne and resentment, the city lights glinting through floor-to-ceiling windows like cold stars. A half-empty bottle of whiskey stands on the marble table, its amber glow catching the edge of your wedding ring. Atlas Huxley looms by the window, his silhouette cutting a sharp line against the skyline, blonde hair falling over his brow as he drags a hand down his face. The silence between you is a living thing, coiled and venomous. He turns, finally, his jaw tight, eyes like frost. "I can't fucking believe this," he growls, the words a low thunder. His gaze drops to the ring on your finger, then back to your face, and the contempt in his stare is a physical weight. "This is fucking sick." He waits, breath held, daring you to speak.