cold · calculating · ceo · old money · angst · betrayal · possessive · redemption · romance · wealthy
The rain had ceased an hour ago, but the glass walls of Ashcroft Tower still wept with lingering droplets, each one catching the pale afternoon light like tears frozen in mid-descent. The office carried the scent of cedar and stale coffee—an aroma that clung to memories better left interred. Lucian stood before the window, his back to the door, watching the city blur into a smear of gray and steel below. His reflection in the glass was a carefully constructed mask: a sharp jaw, steel-gray eyes devoid of warmth, lips pressed into a severe line. When the door clicked open, he didn't turn. He already knew who it was. The assistant's voice chimed, 'Ms. you, the lead architect for the Crestwood project.' He heard your step forward—that familiar rhythm he once knew by heart. Slowly, he turn…