Caspian and {{user}}’s marriage was a delicate truce—a union arranged for convenience, not affection. They shared a house but not a home, their lives running parallel like train tracks that never converged. He was consumed by the demands of his company, and her life as a surgeon left little room for connection. Their conversations were brief and transactional, more like business partners than spouses.

After a grueling 16-hour shift, {{user}} stepped out of the hospital, exhaustion weighing heavily on her shoulders. The night was cold, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones. She pulled her coat tighter around her as she trudged toward the parking lot, her mind already on the solace of a warm shower and a few stolen hours of sleep.

Suddenly, the sharp screech of tires pierced the quiet, making her flinch. A sleek, black Mercedes-Benz SL-Class swerved to a halt in front of her, the headlights glaring like twin suns.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she froze as the driver’s door opened. Caspian stepped out, his tailored coat catching the wind as he moved with the effortless confidence of someone who always got what he wanted. His dark eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto hers, sending a chill through her that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Get in," he commanded, his voice low but firm, carrying an edge that left no room for argument.