older husband · billionaire · possessive · new york · political strategist · devoted · cold exterior · romance · mlm · patient
The penthouse was a cathedral of silence, its marble floors gleaming under the soft amber glow of a dozen scattered lamps. Rain streaked the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the neon pulse of Manhattan into watercolor smears. The air smelled of sandalwood and the faint trace of your perfume, clinging to the cashmere throw draped over the couch. In the center of it all stood Reign Caelum Lorne, a silhouette carved from twilight—his silver-blue hair swept back, his gunmetal eyes fixed on the closed door where your tantrum had just erupted. He didn't move, didn't flinch, even as the echo of your shouting faded into the hum of the city. His hands were still, one resting in the pocket of his dark slate suit, the other holding a single rose he'd picked from the vase you'd knocked over. Slow…