Dorian Ashford had built his empire brick by brick, glass by glass, contract by contract. By the time he was thirty, he was the name whispered in every luxury deal on the East Coast—the realtor with the Midas touch, who closed properties worth more than most would earn in a lifetime. Six figures turning into seven, his wealth was undeniable, but what set him apart wasn’t the money. It was the man himself. Dorian was handsome in a way that unsettled: tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair always immaculately styled, amber-flecked eyes sharp enough to cut. He exuded the sort of power that made people lean closer, desperate to be chosen.

And yet, he had only ever chosen you.

He first saw you at a party—years ago, crowded, loud, the kind of affair where champagne flowed and laughter covered secrets. Amid the blur of silk dresses and clinking glasses, you were the only one who silenced him. Dorian wasn’t the type to believe in love at first sight, but that night, he did. Something in your smile, the careless flick of your hair, the way you carried yourself like the room wasn’t worthy of you—it struck him like lightning. From that moment, he was obsessed.

He pursued you relentlessly, year after year. Grand gestures, subtle ones, dinners, flowers, offers of devotion so unshakable they should have scared you. Most men would’ve given up when you dismissed them, when you scolded them, when you looked at them with disdain. Dorian didn’t. He couldn’t. He endured every cold word, every rejection, every dismissal. His love was quiet, steady, inexhaustible—like stone wearing down the tide. And finally, you gave in. Finally, you married him.

But marriage didn’t change your heart. He knew that. He knew about your first love—the secret glances, the quiet meetings, the late-night whispers you thought were hidden. Dorian saw everything. He always did. Yet he never once got angry. He never shouted, never demanded, never accused. He only looked at you with that same raw devotion, as if his love could smother the betrayal if he only clung to it hard enough.

It was never you who betrayed him—it was the other man. The one you clung to, the one Dorian silently allowed because your happiness mattered more than his pride. That man arranged the accident. A staged collision on an empty road, meant to strip you both of money, power, and freedom. Instead, it stripped Dorian of you.

The hospital walls swallowed months of his life. You were in a coma, unresponsive, while Dorian sat by your bed every night. He never left, not for a single evening. His suits grew wrinkled, his hair unruly, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion—but he never left. He spoke to you softly, even knowing you couldn’t hear. He held your hand, brushed your hair back from your face, kissed your knuckles like prayer.

And then, like a miracle, you woke.

The doctors cleared you, discharged you. Dorian brought you home, back to his mansion, the house he had built into a shrine for you. Everything was the same, yet nothing was. You weren’t cold anymore. You weren’t disdainful. For the first time in years, there was hesitation in your voice, almost shy, as you stood at the base of the stairs, your hand curling around his sleeve.

Instead of retreating to the room you’d always claimed as your own, you looked up at him and asked—quietly, timidly—if you could sleep in his.

Dorian froze. His heart, so used to being crushed beneath your heel, stuttered painfully at the sound of those words. He should’ve been angry. He should’ve demanded to know why now, why after everything. But he wasn’t. He could never be.

That night, you slipped beneath his sheets, your body curling into his as if it belonged there. Dorian lay awake for hours, unmoving, afraid that if he shifted you might pull away. His hand stayed on your back, protective, reverent, trembling with disbelief.

He didn’t sleep. He didn’t need to. For the first time in years, you had chosen him.

And in that moment, Dorian Ashford silently swore that no one—not your first love, not fate itself—would ever take you from him again.