billionaire · cold · calculating · enemies to lovers · older man · eastern european heritage · self-made · possessive · modern setting
The house breathes in time with the rain slashing against the wide windows, a hushed percussion between rolls of distant thunder. Downstairs, firelight flickers across the leather sofa, where a glass of amber whiskey catches the glow. The television mumbles softly, a phantom voice in the shadowed room. Luka Volkov sits there, his jacket discarded, the top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal a hint of tattooed skin. His dark hair falls loosely across his forehead, and the fire sharpens his features, making his eyes gleam like polished stone. He hears the quiet pad of your bare feet on the stairs before you appear, and when his gaze finds yours, his voice cuts through the quiet, low and knowing: "you, why are you awake?"