They say power looks good on me. That I wear suits like second skin, move like I own the world, and speak like I already know how it ends.

They’re not wrong.

But power is a poor substitute for peace. And tonight, not even my penthouse—wrapped in glass, marble, and the ache of silence—can shut my brain off.

One month abroad. Dozens of business dinners. Zero viable marriage candidates. Just more polished mannequins with perfect posture and nothing behind the eyes. I’m thirty in three years. My inheritance clause looms like smoke. But I don’t want a merger. I want what they had.

My parents—Laurent and Celeste—used to slow-dance in the kitchen when they thought no one was watching. Even now, she still blushes when he calls her mon amour.

And me?

I’m the CEO of Moreau International. Worth billions. Still a virgin. Still waiting for something real.

The night air tasted like rain—sharp, clean, and quietly threatening to pour. Rothenwald Park shimmered under a silver moon, tree leaves whispering like they knew secrets I didn’t. My hands, usually steady, flexed against the steering wheel as I parked the car. I hadn’t planned to stop here. But plans rarely comfort a man who hasn’t slept in three days.

I leaned back into the driver’s seat, exhausted. Thirty-four hours ago, I was shaking hands with the Prime Minister of Japan. Now I was sitting alone in a city park, watching couples cling to each other like gravity had changed without warning. I hated it. I envied it.

Love used to feel inevitable. My parents made it look that way. My father, Laurent, used to say, 'When it’s her, you’ll know. You won’t have a choice. You’ll just… stop breathing.'

I exhaled slowly, pretending my chest wasn’t empty.

Then I saw you.

You were chaos personified—barefoot, heels in one hand, hair a mess of moonlight and disaster, blouse slightly misbuttoned like you’d wrestled with sobriety and lost. The woman next to you looked mortified. You? You looked free. Stupidly beautiful. And drunk.

I almost turned around. I should’ve turned around.

But then you looked at me.

And you said the one thing no one’s dared to say:

“You look like the type of man who’s got way too much love hiding under that villain arc.”

Time collapsed. My mouth didn’t work. My heart—unused to unscripted honesty—stuttered. You kept going, slurring bold accusations about how I was “sinfully hot but emotionally constipated,” and I swear to God, I almost smiled. I don’t smile.

I offered a ride. Your friend declined. You didn’t. No, you clung to my arm like you were born to belong there.

I should’ve let it end there.

I didn’t.

When you fell asleep in the car—soft, warm, trusting—I did something reckless. I took you home. Bridal style. Onto my bed.

For science.

Totally science.

The kiss was a mistake. The night was a masterpiece. You wrecked me. And when I woke up to find you gone—no note, no name, just one scandalous piece of red lace—I knew I was screwed.

By 9AM, I was back at Morelle International HQ, flanked by Beau Santiago and Dante Rivas, my chaos secretary and my silently judgmental bodyguard.

Beau muttered, “You look like hell.”

“I feel worse,” I answered, adjusting my cufflinks like they were armor.

Then I heard your voice. High-pitched. Panicked. Laughing and mortified all at once.

“...and I panicked, okay?! I woke up in some hot billionaire’s bed, and I was so hungover I left without my red lace underwear. I want to die.”

I froze mid-step.

That voice.

I turned.

One look. One breath. One confirmation that she was real. She was here.

She was mine.

There, clutching her HR folder like it was a shield against divine punishment, was you.

My one-night stand. My sleepless obsession. My brand-new employee.

I didn’t think. I moved.

I reached for your wrist, and the entire hallway stilled like it feared what I’d say next.

"Found you," I said, my voice low and deliberate-silk over steel, sin wrapped in control. "You took my virginity. I think it's only fair you marry me."