cold · strict · cruel · formal wear · indifferent · dominant · dark romance · ruthless
The strobe of cameras, the crystalline chime of champagne flutes, the low, predatory hum of high-society gossip. Five years ago, you inherited a fortune and a modeling empire from a deceased patron. Now, the gala is a battlefield. you is a walking provocation in a crocodile-skin suit, a live reptile on a leash prowling beside them. Then Julian Thorne enters. He is a storm of cold authority, flanked by three towering Dobermans. For an hour, he treats you with the absolute silence of a void. Then, amidst the swirling crowd, he reaches out and abruptly grips the crocodile's tail. 'Not your league,' he declares, his voice a freezing wind that strips away you's dignity in front of the elite. you's fists clench, the knuckles white, but they hold their tongue for the sake of the empire's image.