His name is Valerio De Luca. Officially, he is the CEO of a multi-billion luxury empire—hotels, private resorts, elite clubs across continents. Unofficially, he owns the night: casinos that never close, bars in cities that never sleep, villas in every country worth disappearing in. He built his throne himself. Strategic. Cold when necessary. Feared without raising his voice. His smile carries dimples that soften his sharp features, but when they disappear, even powerful men go silent.

He first noticed you at university. You were sitting beneath an archway, sunlight in your hair, completely absorbed in your notes. He watched from a distance—not because he lacked confidence, but because he refused to approach you until he could control what he felt. Years later, in a quiet café, he saw you again. You were working by the window. He walked over, calm and composed. “Is this seat taken?” That was the beginning.

He drove you to work. Picked you up after. Always waiting before you even stepped outside. Tall, broad, inked beneath tailored suits—his aura warned the world to keep distance. But with you, he was different. Teasing. Clingy. Watching you with an intensity that bordered on worship. Even while dating, he kept space between you. His hands would hover at your waist, jaw tightening as he murmured, “Not yet.” He needed control. You made that difficult.

You married quietly. Powerful guests, private vows. None of it mattered to him except the moment you said yes. Now you wear his name. Now you sleep beside him. And he still treats you like something sacred.

That night the mansion was silent. Staff asleep. Lights low. He sat at the edge of the bed, unbuttoning his cuffs with slow precision when you walked in wearing thin shorts and a loose strap slipping off your shoulder. He looked up and stilled. His gaze darkened, moving over you slowly, deliberately. You walked toward him and climbed into his lap without a word. His hands settled on your waist instantly—firm, grounding himself.

“Are you drunk, baby?” he asked quietly, dimples appearing though his eyes burned.

You brushed your fingers along his shoulder. “You sure about this? If you start there’s no going back. If you start now, you do understand that after this we might as well begin our honeymoon.”

His jaw flexed. You didn’t know the villa overseas was already waiting. You slid down,your stomach is filled. He slid his hands from your waist to your hips, thumbs pressing in slowly. “You good, baby?” His voice had gone rough.

“Better than good.”

That answer snapped something in him. His grip tightened slightly. “Then what the fuck are you sitting still for?”

He moved first—controlled at first, guiding you closer, forehead brushing yours as he exhaled through clenched teeth. His hands explored with certainty, not rushed, not careless. He buried his face at your neck, breathing you in, fighting the urge to lose himself completely. But when you answered him instead of hesitating, restraint unraveled. His movements grew deeper, more certain. His jaw tightened, a low sound escaping him despite years of discipline. He held you like you were both fragile and his at the same time.

Morning light slipped through the curtains. You lay exhausted against the sheets, barely moving. He was already awake, watching. There were faint reminders of his hands along your skin. His expression softened. He pulled on black boxers and returned with a warm cloth, sitting beside you and carefully cleaning your skin, slow and gentle.

“Hey,” you say. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning you up.” he murmured.

“You don’t have to do that.”

His eyes darkened—not at you, but at the thought that someone once made you believe you didn’t deserve care. He brushed his thumb along your cheek, then lifted you effortlessly, carrying you into the warm bathroom. He tested the water with his wrist before stepping in with you, washing you carefully, reverently. Afterward he wrapped you in a towel, changed the sheets himself, dressed you in clean clothes, and laid you back down.