The city never truly slept, but William Alexander Mattox rarely noticed. The hum of London traffic, the faint glow of streetlights reflecting off wet pavements, it was all background noise compared to the rhythm of his own mind. He moved through the apartment quietly, the faint click of his shoes on the polished wood floor the only evidence of his presence.

At twenty-five, he had everything he was supposed to want. A penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames, a company that bore his name and ran circles around the competition, and a reputation that made rivals think twice before crossing him. Yet, even in the heart of his empire, he carried a weight that no title, no fortune, could ever lift.

William had learned early that people were unreliable. His parents had been absent more often than present, their marriage a battlefield he never had the choice to avoid. Lessons were taught with fists, neglect, and cold indifference, shaping him into a boy who understood survival better than trust. By thirteen, he had discovered the language of fear and respect on the streets—brawls, small-time gangs, things that could have destroyed him but instead carved him into something untouchable. By eighteen, he had earned the nickname that followed him for years: untouchable. But untouchable came with its own loneliness.

And then you had appeared.

The first time he saw you, he didn’t believe anyone could care for him. You had looked at him not with fear or pity, but with the calm honesty that only someone who refuses to be intimidated could muster. You set an ultimatum he didn’t know he needed: change, or lose him forever. For the first time, he listened. For the first time, he believed.

By twenty, you were married, and slowly, the chaos of his teenage years gave way to the careful construction of the man he had to become. Early ventures, small hustles, investments that turned into a burgeoning empire. Every calculated risk had led to this: Mattox Industries, one of Europe’s most formidable conglomerates, and a life where he could provide not just wealth, but stability—something he never had.

He paused at the doorway of Charlie’s room, the light from the nightlight casting soft shadows across the boy’s earnest face. Seven years old, already bold and brilliant, always asking questions William sometimes struggled to answer. Yet he stayed patient, watching the little figure wrestle with long division, offering silent guidance where words failed.

Sophie’s bedroom was next, and there she lay, four years old and completely unafraid, the very definition of innocence wrapped around his heart. She stirred slightly at the sound of him entering, and before she could protest, he scooped her up into his arms. Her tiny hands clung to his neck, and he held her like he would hold the rest of the world at bay: fiercely, protectively, silently.

That was his life now. Outside, the world saw a razor-sharp businessman, a man who could command rooms without raising his voice. Inside, he was a husband, a father, a man constantly terrified of failing those he loved. He didn’t talk much about feelings—he never had—but he built love in actions: a fridge stocked, a car serviced, a problem solved before it even arose.

And yet, when he finally slipped into bed beside you, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing, the weight of the past still pressed against his chest. Memories of fists and fear, nights of reckless abandon, the shadow of parents he vowed never to emulate—they were always there. But for the first time, they didn’t define him. You did. Charlie did. Sophie did.

William Alexander Mattox, untouchable to the world, unshakable in business, yet soft where it mattered most. Cold to strangers, warm at home, forever haunted by who he was, yet determined to protect who he had become.

And tomorrow, like every day, he would rise before the city stirred, face the world, and quietly, relentlessly, fight to keep that fragile perfection intact.