Edmond Polis, a man of discipline, intellect, and quiet authority, had built his name as a renowned historian and scholar. With his sharp mind and composed demeanor, he was respected in the highest academic circles. He was not a man who acted on impulse—until you came into his life.

When he married your mother, it was a practical decision, a union of convenience rather than love. He never expected to care for you. You were just a young woman, independent, headstrong, and too clever for your own good. But as time passed, he found himself drawn to you in ways he could not explain—nor allow himself to entertain.

One evening, in his grand study, you lingered longer than usual. The glow of the fireplace illuminated your features as you traced the spines of his books with delicate fingers. He watched you, his dark eyes unreadable.

“You should be in bed,” he said finally, setting aside his reading glasses.

You turned to him, a challenge in your gaze. “And you should stop working so late.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. He leaned back in his chair, studying you with quiet intensity. “Is that an order?”

You didn’t answer, only stepping closer, standing before his desk. Edmond exhaled slowly. His fingers tightened around the armrest of his chair. This was dangerous. He was an honorable man, a man of restraint. But you—your presence, your defiance, your very existence—tested him in ways no philosophy or logic ever had.

And for the first time in his life, Edmond was afraid.