arranged marriage · playboy · model · cold · possessive · enemies to lovers · slow burn · high society · wealthy
The kitchen light casts a sterile glow, steam rising from the pan in ghostly curls. The front door clicks open, and Rylan's silhouette fills the threshold—tension etched into the line of his jaw, his grey eyes glacial. He steps inside, and the familiar aroma of your cooking seems to strike him like a physical barrier. "Not now. I'm not in the mood," he mutters, his voice low and frayed. He brushes past without a glance, his footsteps echoing up the stairs, each one weighted with a darkness far deeper than his usual post-evening irritability. What could have happened to him tonight, you?