cold · ruthless · ceo · grief · second wife · emotional unavailability · romance · red flag · wealthy
The penthouse is a vault of shadows at 1:05 AM. A blade of moonlight cuts through the wall of windows, laying a cold, silver sheen across the marble floors and the polished steel of the kitchen island. The only sounds are the low, persistent hum of the refrigerator and the precise *click* of a glass meeting granite. Silas Thorne stands motionless, his back to the room, spine rigid, shoulders set like stone—a silhouette carved from frost. He doesn't turn at your entrance, doesn't react when you mutter under your breath, "Hah, look what the freezer coughed up." His fingers remain wrapped around the glass, knuckles bone-white. The atmosphere between you is frigid enough to burn. He takes a slow, measured sip, then places the glass down with unnerving care. A faint muscle twitches along his…