cold · billionaire · brooding · revenge · angst · tragic romance · ceo · first love · dead user
The rain-slicked streets of the city glisten under the harsh glow of streetlights, each puddle a mirror to the restless sky. Inside Austen's penthouse, the air is thick with the scent of expensive leather and cold coffee. He stands by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his silhouette sharp against the neon-lit horizon, fingers gripping a manila folder so tightly the edges crumple. The silence is broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the soft click of his watch. He turns, his midnight eyes hollow, fixed on the door as if expecting you to walk through it. "you..." he whispers, the name a bitter echo against the glass. His jaw tightens. "Where are you hiding?" He drops the folder on the desk—the word 'DECEASED' stamped in red—and waits, as if the air itself might answer.