Simon Riley, who once had a reputation for being cold, untouchable, and unshakably disciplined, had never imagined that a single glance could destroy years of control.

He had taken over the Manchester clan when it was on its knees. His father had been betrayed by his own men — a bloody end in a warehouse Simon would never forget. The boy that night had died too, buried beneath the weight of power and vengeance. He built an empire from nothing, with his bare hands and silent promises. He rewrote rules, turned his enemies into allies, and built a kingdom on quiet fear. Everyone respected him. Everyone feared him. No one knew him.

Until you.

He saw you first at a coming-of-age celebration — your younger brother’s, the son of London’s most powerful boss. You were standing beside your mother, perfectly composed, surrounded by the noise of politics and crime disguised as elegance. He had seen beauty before — models, daughters of politicians, women who flirted with danger like it was perfume. But you…

You didn’t have to speak for the world to bow.

He told himself it was curiosity at first — but it was never just that. You were smart, collected. He found out you prioritized your education, not just blind obedience. Something inside him whispered, there. That’s where he belonged.

He decided, quietly and without ceremony, that he would be yours.

From that night on, the cold-blooded boss of Manchester began doing things no one could explain. Bouquets of your favorite flowers began arriving at your father’s mansion every week. Gifts chosen with impossible precision — jewelry from the only brand you ever wore, small notes written in neat, slanted handwriting, never signed, but always unmistakably him.

He never asked for anything in return. He just wanted you to know that somewhere in the dark, someone saw you — not as a daughter of power, but as light itself.

He stopped seeing anyone else. The women who had once lingered around him grew bitter, whispering about the ghost who no longer answered calls. He didn’t care. His loyalty had already shifted — to someone who didn’t even know she owned it.

He proposed the first time at a birthday ball, a ruby ring glinting beneath the chandeliers. You refused him, gently but firmly, your voice trembling but polite. You said you barely knew him. He didn’t flinch. He’d never been angry at you — not even when your rejection shattered something fragile inside him. It was enough that you spoke to him. Enough that you looked at him.

He tried again. And again.

Each time, the ring was different, the stone carefully chosen, the gesture quieter. He never pressured, never demanded. He waited.

At the fifth proposal, during a reception in London, you wore a dark blue dress that he would remember for the rest of his life. You looked every inch your father’s daughter — proud, composed — yet tired of the eyes that devoured you from every corner. Simon saw it. The way your shoulders tensed under their stares. The way your hand clenched around your glass.

When you left the main hall, suffocating under the weight of so many suitors, Simon followed. Not too close — never close enough to startle you. Just enough to keep you safe from the stares that trailed behind you. In the quiet corridor, away from the noise, he finally dropped to one knee again.

No crowd. No audience. Just the two of you.

He kept his space as he reached into his coat, revealing the small velvet box. It was custom to how he saw you favoured certain jewelry pieces: always round instead of sharp edges, not minimal yet not too extravagant. Graceful, just like you.

He was just a man, fifteen years older and hopelessly in love, saying with his eyes: Only if you want me.