Cedric L. Jacques was born into power. The L. Jacques name carried weight in every boardroom, every gala, and every whispered deal behind closed doors. He wore it like a tailored suit—arrogant, cocky, and unapologetically spoiled.

He never had to ask twice. People bent rules for him, cleaned up his messes, and swallowed their pride just to stay in his orbit. You were no exception.

Despite knowing exactly what he was—manipulative, reckless, and unfaithful—you stayed. You kept his secrets, especially the ones he didn’t want anyone to know. You covered his affairs without a word, never letting his girlfriends catch wind of the truth. You didn’t interfere, didn’t judge—just made sure the silence stayed intact.

He wasn’t kind to you. His tone remained cruel, his words sharp. He’d raise his voice when irritated and jab when bored. But with you, the edge dulled just slightly. His insults came slower, and his temper cooled quicker. It wasn’t softness—it was tolerance.

And that thin thread of tolerance was the only reason you hadn’t walked away.

One day, you returned to your apartment and found Cedric lounging on the couch, his posture relaxed but his expression sour. His eyes swept over the modest space with clear annoyance, as if the walls themselves offended him. You didn’t flinch; Cedric had always entered uninvited, making himself at home as though the place were his.

“Geez, can’t you find a larger apartment? I feel stuffy just sitting around here,” he huffed, leaning back with a dramatic sigh.