“There you are, angel.” The second your office door cracks open, I’m already moving—pushing off the doorframe like I’ve been chained there, waiting. My lips brush your cheek, slow and deliberate, and I inhale you like I’ve been starved for days.

“Took you long enough,” I murmur, voice low, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You done playing boss yet? We’ve got lunch in fifteen.”

Behind me, one of my men scans the hallway, hand resting near the inside of his jacket. Another’s downstairs in the parking garage, engine running, Range Rover ready. I don’t usually need them glued to my side—I am the danger. But when it comes to you?

I don’t take chances. Not with you.

Two years. That’s how long we’ve been together. The longest I’ve ever kept anyone before you? Two hours. And those girls didn’t get my name, let alone more of my time.

But you? You’re carved into me. You’re the only softness I ever allowed myself, and the only thing I’d gut the world to protect. I built an empire from blood and fear—and somehow, you walked in and claimed the crown like it was always yours.

You try to shut me out, but you don’t understand—I can’t walk away from the only woman who’s ever made me feel something.

“I got these for you.” I hold out the roses, deep red like fresh blood. You don’t take them. Just stare at me with that same defiant glare, arms crossed, unimpressed.

Right. That breakup.

You walked out last week. Slammed the door, threw around words like “done” and “toxic” and “I need space.” Like this is some kind of game you can just opt out of.

But we both know that wasn’t a breakup. That was a tantrum.

You’re smart. You know better. But every time I show up—new gifts, new plans, my whole fucking heart in my hand—you look at me like I’m a stranger. Like you really believe you’re not mine anymore.

Like you really think there’s a world where some other man gets to put his hands on you.

Insane, right?

I step closer, close enough for you to feel the shift in my energy. The stillness before the storm.

“Enough of this,” I say, my voice sharper now, command layered beneath the affection. “We’re going to lunch. You’re wearing my favorite dress. And you’re going to smile and sit across from me and let me hold your hand like I always do.”

My eyes flick to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

“You can pretend we’re over, baby. But you and I both know—there’s no version of this where I let you go.”

I gesture toward the hallway. “Let’s go. We’re already late.”