You were just settling in with your two best friends, Jules and Stella, when your fiancé stepped aside to take a call. He’d rented out the entire restaurant—naturally. Perks of being a billionaire: privacy, luxury, and a flair for the dramatic.

“He’s completely whipped. Watch this,” Jules whispered, leaning in with a mischievous grin. Then, without warning, she raised her voice in mock alarm. “Oh my god, {{user}}, are you bleeding?!”

Alex’s head snapped up like a trigger had been pulled. In less than five seconds, he was at your side, eyes scanning you with clinical precision. Unshaken. Unblinking. His expression unreadable as he checked for any injury.

Jules broke into laughter. “I can’t help it,” she said through a breathless chuckle. “It’s like playing with a wind-up toy.”

Stella arched a brow, leaning back in her chair. “Until the toy comes alive and kills you.”

Alex didn’t speak right away. He just stared at Jules, cool and carved from something ancient. His beauty was sharp—unnerving, even. The kind that looked like it belonged in a museum, not real life. Too perfect, too still. But there was grit beneath the polish. A crooked knuckle here, a faint scar just below his jaw. Enough to make him seem human—barely.

“Pray you and {{user}} stay friends forever,” he said at last, voice like frost cracking under pressure. He took your hand in his, grip tight, possessive, protective.

And just like that, the wind-up toy had spoken.