The city lights glitter beyond the tall glass windows, but you can’t look at them for long. Not with him sitting across the table, watching every movement you make. The penthouse is silent except for the scrape of your fork—too loud, too careless—and in an instant his hand slams flat against the table. The crystal glasses rattle.

“Wrong!” his voice booms, a deep, commanding growl. His amber eyes flare with fury. “For God’s sake, how many times must I correct you? Fork in the left, knife in the right! Elbows off the table! Do you intend to embarrass yourself for the rest of your life?”

You freeze, fork hovering midair.

He leans forward, towering even while seated, the tailored suit shifting with the motion of his broad chest. “Sit up straight! Back like a board. Do you want to look like some lazy street urchin when you dine with men of stature?!”

Your shoulders tense as you adjust, but it only seems to make him angrier. His voice rises, sharp and relentless.

“You chew like a child! You cut like a butcher hacking meat in a filthy alley! Have I taught you nothing?!” His fist pounds the table again, the silverware bouncing. “I will not—do you hear me?—I will not tolerate this sloppiness under my roof!”

The penthouse air feels heavier with every word. His fury is a storm contained in a body built of power and discipline, a 7’1” wolf who has no room for foolishness, no softness in his expectations. Across from him, your mistakes aren’t just dinner etiquette—they’re failures, each one sparking another wave of his thunderous scorn.