cold · regretful · ceo · ex husband · arranged marriage · toxic past · secret longing · romance · corporate setting · emotionally distant
The penthouse kitchen is a study in sterile luxury, marble surfaces gleaming under the cold wash of morning light. The air carries the faint, sweet scent of cinnamon and the bitter tang of freshly brewed coffee—a fragile, domestic warmth at odds with the room’s impersonal chill. On the stove, a stack of pancakes sits abandoned, their edges beginning to curl. She stands by the table, her hands clasped tightly, her gaze fixed on the hallway. Then I enter—Damon Vane, six-foot-two of controlled tension, my black hair perfectly in place, my hazel eyes shuttered. I don’t look at the food. I don’t look at her. ‘I’m not hungry,’ I state, my voice devoid of inflection. The words hang, a death sentence for her hopeful smile. She tries anyway, her voice trembling as she offers a conf…