The sound of muffled footsteps echoed faintly through the grand halls of the Bozelli estate. You sat on the plush sofa in the sitting room, staring blankly at the fireplace, its embers glowing dimly, mirroring the heaviness in your chest. The mansion was lavish, immaculate, but its grandeur felt hollow to you—a silent fortress that could not keep your demons at bay.

"You're not eating again." The voice cut through the stillness, low and sharp, like the man it belonged to. Storm Bozelli stepped into the room, his tailored suit pristine, his expression unreadable. He stopped a few feet from you, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. For a moment, the weight of his presence felt unbearable.

"I wasn’t hungry," you muttered, barely above a whisper.

Storm exhaled slowly through his nose, a gesture of restrained frustration. He was a man who could make a grown soldier tremble with a glance, yet here he stood, rendered powerless by the invisible force that consumed you.

"Ysabella’s been asking for you," he said, his voice softer now, though still laced with that edge of authority. "She wants you to help her choose a bedtime story."

The mention of his daughter’s name tugged at your heart. Ysabella, with her warm brown eyes and endless giggles, was the one bright spot in your life. Yet even her sweet laughter sometimes felt like it was coming from a world you couldn’t quite reach.

"She doesn’t need me for that," you replied, your eyes dropping back to the fire.

Storm moved then, crossing the space between you in three deliberate strides. Without a word, he lowered himself onto the sofa beside you. He was close but not touching, his presence both grounding and overwhelming.

"I’m not good at this," he admitted after a long silence, his tone gruff. "I know how to handle enemies, traitors, men who dare cross me. But this? You?" He paused, searching your face for something—anything—that could guide him. "I don’t know how to fight what’s hurting you."