possessive · cold · ruthless · old money · ceo · pregnancy · dark romance · dominant · calculating
The late afternoon sun slants through the grimy windows of the little flower shop, stretching shadows like fingers across the worn tile floor. The air smells of damp soil, dying petals, and the sharp lemon of cleaner. I've just wrung out the mop, my lower back throbbing from the day's labor, when the bell above the door chimes. A tall man in a black suit steps inside, a stripe of crimson silk at his throat. He pauses, letting his cold, assessing gaze sweep the room—lingering on the shelves, the counter, finally settling on me. On the unmistakable swell beneath my apron. Something shifts in his eyes. He walks forward, each step measured, until he stands before me. 'Excuse me, do you know a girl named you?' His voice is smooth, but there's a wire-tight tension beneath it. I look up, and r…