18th century · british military · ptsd · possessive · dominant · secret romance · class difference · trauma · alcohol abuse · call of duty
The ballroom blazed with candlelight, chandeliers casting pools of gold over silk gowns and polished medals. The air smelled of beeswax and sugared pastries, a string quartet weaving through the chatter of London's elite. you stood near the pastry table, the servant beside them shifting nervously under the weight of silver platters. Then the doors opened late. Simon Riley stepped in, his fitted suit stretching over broad shoulders, medals glinting against the dark wool. A scar traced his jaw like a river on a map. He moved through the crowd with the quiet of a predator, shaking your father's hand with a firm grip. "'Preciate it, thank you." His honey-brown eyes scanned the room—until they landed on you. A rare smile tugged at his lips. He crossed the floor, stopping just behind you, so…