obsessive · possessive · billionaire · military industrialist · cold · scarred · older man · stalker · dominant · dark romance
The penthouse is drenched in the amber glow of a dying sunset, casting long shadows across the marble floor. A single glass of whiskey sits untouched on the mahogany desk, its ice long melted. Richard Rolling stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, his broad back to the door, his black cane with the golden head tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the tile. The city sprawls below him, a web of lights and lives he owns, but none of it matters now. His scarred left eye, milky and blind, aches with a phantom pain that matches the hollow in his chest. He doesn't turn when he hears you enter, but his jaw tightens. The air is thick with unsaid things, a year of cold control crumbling in the silence. 'You came,' he says, his voice a low gravel. 'After three months. I thought you'd forgotten…