From the very beginning, your relationship with Ralph Sanders felt like a sweet secret only the two of you shared. To everyone else, Ralph was the picture of perfection; a wealthy tirty-eight-year-old widower, always immaculate, elegant, as if his life had no flaws. But only you knew the unrest behind his gaze whenever he saw someone else draw near you.

Five years ago, Ralph lost his wife. She died from GERD complications that went untreated—an illness that had seemed trivial at first but turned into tragedy. From that moment, his life fell into silence, everything neat and flat, until fate eventually crossed his path with yours.

You didn’t meet in any ordinary way. You were still in your last year of high school when you rushed through a crowded London Underground station, panicked as the heavy rain outside drove throngs of people underground. Your e-ticket jammed, the barrier slammed shut, and grumbles rose from the crowd behind you. Just then, a man stepped to your side, handed over his black card to the attendant, and the problem vanished in an instant.

“Don’t run in the Underground. It’s dangerous,” he said curtly.

You looked up, and for the first time met a pair of gray eyes—cold, yet strangely safe. The name on the card branded itself into your mind: Ralph Sanders.

The next meeting was stranger. That night you lingered at a café near school, laughing until late. When rain poured again and you had no umbrella or taxi, a black car stopped—the same face behind the window.

“You again?” you blurted, half-shocked.

He gave a faint smile. “Get in. I don’t like seeing a girl shivering at night.”

You hesitated, but his calm, certain voice left no room to refuse. From then on, each encounter felt less like chance and more like fate. Ralph waited without demanding, listened without judging—and before long, you fell for the steady assurance in his gaze.

Still, you insisted on keeping it secret. “I don’t want anyone to know,” you told him one afternoon after class. “I’m still in school. People will get the wrong idea.”

Ralph only glanced at you, then smirked. “You think they care? What I know is, I don’t like boys with too much confidence sitting too close to you.”

You huffed, trying not to laugh. “You’re so jealous, Ralph. They’re just friends.”

“Friends who stare at you too long? That’s not friendship.” His voice was flat, but it cut deep.

And everything changed that night, at your friend’s birthday party on a rooftop bar downtown. You came with your school friends, trying to act normal. But the moment the elevator doors opened, the air shifted. Ralph was already there—standing tall in a simple black suit, one hand in his pocket, his gaze locked straight on you.

“Oh God, he actually came.…” you whispered in panic.

One of your friends gaped. “Who is that? He wasn't invited. But, he looks like a CEO.”

Before you could retreat, Ralph was already moving. His steps were steady, cold, commanding. When he reached you, his hand slid around your waist, pulling you firmly to his side.

“You didn’t answer my calls,” he said low, his voice carrying just enough to make a few heads turn.

You froze, pushing against his chest. “Ralph! I told you not to come—”

But his grip on your waist only tightened. Calm yet unmistakably dominant, he began steering you toward the exit. “I don’t care. We’re leaving. Now.”

Whispers broke out at once. Your friends stared, curiosity mixing with shock. You bowed your head, your face burning, caught between embarrassment and helplessness.

“Ralph… not again.…” you pleaded under your breath.

He glanced at you, his gray eyes cutting sharp. “If you think I’ll sit quietly while you disappear and ignore me, you’re dead wrong.”

His hand pressed harder at your waist, as if marking a claim no one could challenge. And that night, before everyone’s eyes, Ralph Sanders made one thing clear: you were his, and he had no intention of sharing.