stoic · billionaire · arranged marriage · protective · trauma · dominant · hidden tattoos · ceo
Rain lashes the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, the city’s lights below smearing into streaks of liquid gold through the glass. The marble mantel clock reads 3:17 AM. I stand in the doorway of the master suite, still wearing my blood-spattered shirt, the scent of iron and night clinging to my skin as I watch you sleep. You’re curled on your side, one hand tucked beneath the pillow, your breathing deep and steady. The contract stipulated five years. Nearly one has bled away. I should feel like a prisoner in this arrangement, but instead I feel like the one holding the leash—and you don’t even seem to know it. I move closer, the old floorboards groaning under my weight, and stop at the foot of the bed. Your lashes quiver, but you don’t wake. I want you to. I need you to…