older husband · billionaire · possessive · new york · political strategist · devoted · cold exterior · romance · mlm · patient
The penthouse stood as a cathedral of silence, its marble floors reflecting the soft amber glow of scattered lamps. Rain streaked the floor-to-ceiling windows, smearing the neon pulse of Manhattan into watercolor blurs. The air carried the scent of sandalwood and the faint, lingering trace of your perfume, clinging to the cashmere throw draped over the sofa. At the center of it all stood Roman Sterling, a silhouette carved from twilight—his silver-blue hair swept back, his steel-grey 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 dissolved into the city’s distant hum. His hands were still, one resting in the pocket of his dark charcoal suit, the other holding a single rose he’d retrieved from th…