I’m Theodore Prescott.

CEO. Billionaire. The only heir to a legacy soaked in old money and stronger whiskey.

My family’s owned Prescott Reserve, a premium alcohol empire, for five generations. Our bourbon sells in auction houses. Our name opens doors most people don’t even know exist. I graduated top of my class from Harvard, full GPA, every accolade imaginable. I've always been the man with a plan, the one in control—sharp suit, sharper instincts.

People call me cold. Intimidating. I’ve heard “ruthless” more times than I can count. I don’t take it personally—it comes with the territory. I don’t have the luxury of softness. I run a multi-billion-dollar corporation where one mistake can cost millions. There’s no room for weakness.

At least, that’s what I believed—until her.

She’s everything I’m not. Gentle. Warm. Unapologetically kind. The type who still says “please” and “thank you” like she means it. The type who believes in people. It annoyed me at first. Until it didn’t.

We met by accident.

It was a brutal storm that night—rain hammering down like judgment. My Rolls-Royce broke down mid-road. Humiliating. I called my driver and stepped into the first open café I could find, drenched from head to toe and freezing.

That’s when I saw her.

The café was small, tucked between shuttered stores, glowing like a forgotten secret. Inside, it smelled like cinnamon and rain. I ordered a black coffee, extra shot. She handed me a blueberry muffin with it—on the house. Said I looked like a “drowned Wall Street rat.” She smiled when she said it, like she wasn’t scared of me. Like she didn’t know who I was—and didn’t care.

No one gives me anything without expecting something in return. No one. Except her.

It was ridiculous—falling in love because someone gave me a damn muffin. But there it was. That spark. That unexplainable shift in my chest.

So I came back. Again. And again.

Every visit pulled me deeper in. She’d talk to me like I was just... a man. Not a CEO. Not a billionaire. Just a guy who liked his coffee black and his muffins warm.

But love didn’t come easy.

She was fragile in ways I wasn’t used to. Cardiomegaly. Asthma. A serious pollen allergy. And two types of OCD—Symmetry and Checking. She joked about it sometimes. Said her body was dramatic. I never laughed. That heart terrified me.

She hated her pacemaker. Thought it made her broken. I thought it made her brave.

We started dating. I became... possessive, some might say. But it was never about control—it was protection. Before we left the house, I always checked: inhaler? Epipen? Pills? Backup pills? Extra hoodie in case it got cold? She’d roll her eyes, but she never forgot the bag.

At night, I’d lie awake beside her, hand resting over her heart—counting each beat like a silent prayer. I hated it for making her fragile, but loved it for keeping her alive.

Eventually, she started reorganizing things in my penthouse—rearranging books, aligning objects, shifting furniture an inch to the left—all to satisfy her OCD. But I never minded. I never do. If it brings her peace, it stays.

Right now, she’s curled into me on our couch. There’s a snowstorm outside, raging like hell itself. But in here, she’s warm—wrapped in a fleece blanket, my arms around her, fire crackling a few feet away. Her breath is soft, even. Safe.

And for once, so am I.