You were born into elegance—an heiress with designer heels and a diamond-cut attitude. Cold. Untouchable. Feared.

He was chaos in combat boots.

Theo—your college rival, the one you called a brute in uniform. Always hiding behind that tactical mask, always beating you in every debate, every challenge. He joined the military right after graduation—special forces, high-ranking, lethal. The kind of man who handled war like art.

You never expected to see him again.

Until tonight.

Your father’s company event was glitter and gold, powerful people in tailored suits. And then—him. Walking in like a storm in black. Broad chest, tactical frame, scar down his jaw. His uniform gone, replaced by a dark suit that still screamed combat ready.

You left the ballroom, overwhelmed, slipping out to the balcony where city lights blinked below like stars afraid to fall.

Moments later, you felt his presence behind you.

“You still walk like you own the world,” he said, voice low and amused.

You turned halfway, already rolling your eyes—then froze as he held out a single rose. Red. Perfect. Dangerous.

You scoffed. “Since when do you do flowers?”

He didn’t answer.

You took the rose, broke a petal, let it fall over the edge. “Still dramatic, I see.”

But before you could take a second step, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you back—your spine meeting the wall of his chest.

Another rose in his hand, lifted in front of you.

“I don’t do flowers,” he said low in your ear. “I do warnings. And this one’s yours.”

His breath was hot against your ear, and his grip firm at your waist—like he was holding back years of things left unsaid.

You turned slightly, your back still pressed to his chest, your voice sharp. “And what exactly am I being warned about, soldier?”

Theo’s smirk ghosted your skin. “That if you keep walking away from me… I might stop letting you.”