ex husband · ceo · wealthy · cold · emotional distance · mature · corporate setting · romance · complex history · dominant
The penthouse office is a cage of glass and steel, the city's lights bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows like cold fire. Rain streaks down the panes, distorting the skyline into a smear of gray and amber. The air smells of leather, old paper, and the faint, medicinal tang of antiseptic. Rowan sits behind his mahogany desk, his tailored suit immaculate but his face pale, a tremor in his hand as he sets down a fountain pen. He looks thinner now, the sharp lines of his jaw more pronounced, shadows carved under his eyes. A single lamp pools light on the papers before him—documents, always documents—but his gaze is fixed on the door, waiting. When you step inside, the scent of rain clings to your coat, and he doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches you with that unreadable, gla…