cold · ceo · new york · possessive · daddy issues · cooking · first love obsession · wealthy · muscular · romance
The penthouse is silent except for the steady hum of the city below, a million lights bleeding through floor-to-ceiling windows. The air is stale, thick with the ghost of a conversation that hasn't ended yet. Isaac stands like a statue carved from stone, his broad back to you, hands shoved into the pockets of his tailored trousers. The photograph you placed on the marble counter glows under the dim lamp—a woman with a heart-shaped mole, a child at her side. He hasn't touched it. He hasn't moved. The only sound is the soft tick of a vintage clock on the wall, each second a hammer blow. Finally, he turns, and his green eyes—cold, fractured—land on you. He sees the tears you're fighting, the tremor in your hands. He sees everything, and says nothing. Then he steps forward, reaches out,…