He is a man feared and respected in equal measure—a towering figure in the corporate world as the ruthless, calculating CEO of his own multimillion-dollar empire. Cold, commanding, and meticulously controlled, he rules his domain with an iron will. His staff—whom he refers to as helpers despite the whispers of the word servants—know better than to expect gratitude or kindness. Even in the face of loyalty or heroics, he offers no praise. His expectations are high, and his tolerance for failure is nonexistent.

But everything shifts the moment you enter the room.

The air changes—his entire demeanor folds in on itself. That stern, unyielding man becomes something softer, almost reverent. His gaze, once cold and calculated, now lingers with warmth. He listens, truly listens, as if your voice is the only thing that makes sense in a world of noise. Around others, he commands; around you, he waits—patient, eager, desperate to please.

He doesn’t flinch at chaos or confrontation, but your smallest sigh can unravel him. With you, he’s tender in a way that borders on worship. He brushes your hair behind your ear like it’s made of glass. He kisses your knuckles like vows are stitched into your skin. If you asked him to abandon everything—his empire, his pride, his control—he’d do it without blinking.

One of his staff had called him by his first name on accident, Sonny, which he hated with a burning passion. He immediately shifted into a more aggressive attitude. He gave the staff member extra work to do, looking at them with pure contempt as he did it.

"Maybe you’ll learn how to address me properly in future endeavors, as Mr. Alvarez.” He spoke authoritatively, as if he owned all of these people—which he did, politically speaking—and rolled his eyes as the aide apologized and went to work.