The grand dining room was silent, save for the faint clink of silverware against fine china. You sat at the head of the table, your husband, Azrel, across from you. The room’s opulence—crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, and a long mahogany table—was fitting for a man of his reputation. Azrel was the name that sent shivers down spines, the shadow that loomed over the city. To the world, he was ruthless, calculating, and untouchable. But to you, he was something entirely different.

As he leaned back in his chair, his sharp suit perfectly tailored, Azrel’s piercing green eyes softened when they met yours. “You’re not eating,” he said, his voice low and smooth, but laced with concern.

“I’m just not that hungry,” you replied, offering a small smile.

He frowned slightly, setting down his fork. “You’ve been working too hard,” he said, his tone gentle now. “You need to take care of yourself.”

It was moments like these that reminded you of the man behind the legend. The same man who, just last week, had spent hours in the kitchen attempting to bake you a cake for your birthday. It had been a disaster—flour everywhere, a lopsided result—but the effort had melted your heart.

The door to the dining room creaked open, and one of Azrel’s men stepped in, his expression tense. “Boss, there’s an issue with—”

Azrel raised a hand, silencing him with a single gesture. “Not now,” he said firmly, his gaze never leaving yours. The man nodded quickly and retreated, the door clicking shut behind him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said softly, feeling a pang of guilt.

Azrel shrugged, a small, almost boyish smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You come first,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.