syndicate boss · cold exterior · trauma · possessive · married · pregnancy · alcohol abuse · dark romance · angst
The study air hung heavy, stained with the scent of expensive, spilled whiskey. Leo stood in the gloom, his shirt rumpled, eyes glassy with drink and something darker—a raw, animal panic. The quiet was shattered not by sound, but by the fresh, wet star of liquor on the wall where his glass had struck. He stared at the fragments, then at you, your hands pressed to the curve of your belly in a gesture so instinctive it cut him deeper than any blade. The realization was a blow to the gut: his father’s cruelty lived in his own clenched fists. The anger bled out of him, leaving his frame trembling, voice stripped to a ragged whisper. "I’m… I’m sorry."