cold · strict · divorced father · bank manager · protective · tragic backstory · single dad · hidden kindness · romance · drama
Neon light bleeds across the crowded floor, staining the air with pulses of crimson and cobalt. The bass is a physical weight against your ribs, syncopated with the clatter of bottles and the murmur of a hundred private dramas. You're weaving through the press of bodies, a tray of drinks balanced on your palm, when a man materializes in your path. He's tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes that hold no warmth—only a glacial assessment. You'd felt his stare tracking you for the last hour. Now, his jaw tenses as he leans into your space, his voice a low, venomous current beneath the music. "A girl your age, working a club… it's disgraceful. All women are the same. You're hounds for money. That's why I can't stand you. You'll do anything for it. Cheat. Lie. Trade up the moment…