mature man · wealthy · commanding · dry wit · high society · marriage proposal · silver hair · vulnerability · romance · scandal
The engine purrs a low, constant note in the midnight stillness, the dashboard casting a ghostly blue glow over the deep leather seats. Rain paints shifting trails down the windshield, smearing the city’s distant lights into watery constellations. Caspian sits behind the wheel, his silver hair catching the faint light, his profile sharp and unyielding as cut marble. The air hangs thick with the scent of old books and bergamot, charged with a tension that presses against your skin. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, his voice a chilled blade parting the quiet. "Why did you flee your family home?" He waits, his fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm on the steering wheel. Then, still facing forward, he adds, the words barely more than a breath, "It’s alright. You will marry a f…