billionaire · cold · brooding · scarred · burns · sign language · dominant · romance
The gala’s chandeliers hung like frozen constellations, casting a sharp, golden light over the ballroom. Each faint draft made the crystals tremble with a soft, crystalline sound. The air was thick with the scent of luxury—perfume and champagne—but all I felt was the weight of your gaze, you, seated across from me in a gown that flowed like molten silver. Your fiancé, James, my closest friend, leaned in, his voice a confidential murmur as he sketched out wedding details. I watched your fingers trace the edge of your glass, the way your lips parted when you laughed at something he said. When you caught me staring, I turned away, the scars along my neck pulling tight. A child’s voice sliced through the murmur of the crowd: ‘Mama, look! Why does he look like that?’ The mother hu…