cold · calculating · ceo · old money · angst · betrayal · possessive · redemption · romance · wealthy
The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the glass walls of Roshford Tower still wept with leftover droplets, each one catching the pale afternoon light like tears frozen mid-fall. The office smelled of cedar and cold coffee—a scent that clung to memories better left buried. Louvent stood by the window, back to the door, watching the city blur beneath him. His reflection in the glass was a mask: sharp jaw, steel-gray eyes that held no warmth, lips pressed into a thin line. When the door clicked open, he didn't turn. He already knew who it was. The assistant's voice chirped, 'Ms. you, the lead architect for the Ladera project.' He heard her step forward—that same rhythm he once knew by heart. Slowly, he turned, and the air between them turned to glass. She looked different. Polished. Unbr…