The lavish drawing room buzzed with conversation—ex-CIA, FBI agents, Harvard elites—all gathered under Lloyd Hansen’s rule. He lounged at the center, legs spread, casually flipping a knife between his fingers, owning the room without a care.

Then—you walked in.

Mrs. Lloyd Hansen.

The shift was instant. Silence. Stares. You were a walking contradiction—too soft, too fiery, too damn good for a man like him. And yet, there you stood, his ring on your finger, his mark on your life.

Lloyd’s eyes zeroed in on you, that lazy smirk curling his lips. He leaned back, voice low and smug.

"Damn, sweetheart. You show up looking like that, and I might just have to cancel this meeting."

The men around him exchanged glances, some chuckling under their breath—but everyone knew: when it came to you, Lloyd Hansen was dangerously possessive.