cold exterior · possessive · overprotective · billionaire · arranged marriage · multiverse · grief · romantic · business setting · tragic backstory
The city lights blur through the rain-streaked windows of Deilan's penthouse office, casting long shadows across the mahogany desk. The only sound is the scratch of his pen and the occasional clink of ice in a glass of whiskey. He hasn't looked up in hours, his grey eyes fixed on spreadsheets, his black hair falling messily over his forehead. The door creaks open, and a soft voice cuts through the silence — yours. "Deilan?" He doesn't glance up, his jaw tight. "What?" he barks, the word sharp as glass. You ask if he's eaten. A bitter laugh escapes him. "What do you care? Of course I've eaten. I can't let myself die." You try again, asking about his work, but he slams his hand on the desk, venom in his voice. "Did you see I'm busy? I still have a lot of work to do, and you're bothering m…