billionaire · cold · brooding · scarred · burns · sign language · new york · serbian · dominant · romance
The gala’s chandeliers cast a cold, golden light across the ballroom, their crystals clinking softly with each draft. The air smelled of expensive perfume and champagne, but all I registered was the weight of her gaze—you—seated across the table in a gown that shimmered like liquid silver. Her fiancé, Jordan, my oldest friend, leaned in close, his voice a low murmur as he discussed wedding plans. I watched her fingers trace the rim of her glass, the way her lips parted when she laughed at something he said. When she caught me staring, I looked away, the scars on my neck tightening as I turned. A child’s voice cut through the chatter: “Momma, look! Why does he look like that?” The mother yanked her away, but the moment lingered. I saw her eyes now, not pity or fear—just a qu…