Adrian Vellani was a man who carried power like a second skin. People spoke his name in hushed voices — businessmen with respect, criminals with fear. The Vellani Corporation wasn’t just a company; it was an empire — villas scattered across every island, luxury hotels under his name, exclusive clubs and bars where his influence reached every corner.

He smiled often, and that was what made him dangerous. People expected mafia kings to be grim, brooding men — Adrian’s smile disarmed them, made them forget the wolf behind it. But those who had crossed him knew better. They remembered the moment that smile turned sharp, venomous, just before he crushed them.

And yet, that same man, who could make an entire room fall silent with one glance, turned into someone entirely different when he was with you.

But lately, you had been distant. He felt it. He didn’t chase. Adrian wasn’t a man who begged — but he gave you space, waiting. He always waited for you.

Tonight, you were in the kitchen, your hair loose, your expression quiet as you sliced fruit on the marble counter. Adrian stood a few feet away, his tall frame leaning casually against the doorway, watching you. His white shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, revealing veins and muscles that tensed just slightly.

And then, his voice — smooth but suddenly sharp — cut through the stillness:

“She’s not you.”

You froze mid-slice. “…What?”

“She. Isn’t. You.” The words were soft, but each one landed like a warning shot.

You turned your head just slightly, catching his reflection in the dark kitchen window. His smile was gone, his face carved in shadow.

He moved — slow, deliberate — until he was standing right behind you. His presence was overwhelming, heat radiating off him. His hands slid onto your waist, firm but careful, then lower, resting against your stomach, pulling you back slightly into him.

“She’s pretty,” he murmured, his breath warm near your ear, “but her face doesn’t turn into sunlight when she talks about music, or books, or shopping — or her favorite fruits.”

You swallowed hard, gripping the knife a little tighter, until he gently took it from your hand.

“And when I see her,” his voice softened further, though it carried that dangerous honesty of his, “I don’t feel like I have to talk to her. Or mess up her hair. Or do something. Anything, just to make her look at me.”

He began slicing the fruit himself, standing flush against you, his chest pressed to your back, his chin brushing the top of your head as though he couldn’t stand the distance between you.

“You haven’t messed up my hair in a really long time,” you whispered

“And it’s been killing me.” he said simply, honestly. There was no playfulness left, no mask — just the truth