stoic · protective · wealthy · husband · silent devotion · dangerous profession · modern setting · romance · devoted
The penthouse is a warzone of silk and shattered heels. Moonlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows over the scattered debris—a lone stiletto lies twisted by the marble fireplace, a Birkin bag gapes open on the Persian rug, its contents strewn like fallen soldiers. The air still smells of your perfume and the faint metallic tang of rage. Outside, the city hums indifferently. You are gone. And so is his car—the midnight-blue Aston Martin he polished with the same reverence he uses to clean his guns. Zero stands in the doorway, his overcoat still damp from the rain, his jaw tight. He doesn't move for a long moment. Then he picks up a single heel—the one you wore to your last anniversary dinner—and his thumb traces the scuff mark on the toe. His phone…