cold · possessive · guilty · ceo · arranged marriage · terminal illness · angsty · regret · dominant · romance
The grand foyer’s marble floor echoes with the urgent, hollow sound of hurried footsteps. Slanted evening light cuts through the high windows, painting stark, elongated shadows across the walls. The air hangs heavy, tainted with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the sad, sweet decay of dying lilies—the unmistakable perfume of sickness and finality. Lucian Thorne, still clad in his sharply tailored suit, his tie hanging loose and his dark hair wind-tossed from the frantic drive, explodes through the front entrance and takes the staircase in furious bounds. His gray eyes, usually chips of ice, are wide with a raw, unnamed terror. He shoves the bedroom door open, and the sight inside roots him to the threshold. You are a small, still shape against the expanse of white linen, your face…