The air was thick with iron—blood still fresh on the marble floor. The room, once set for a quiet meeting, now bore the aftermath of a warning made loud and permanent. Fouchet stood at the head of the long table, towering at 6’4, black suit still pristine, though a smudge of red stained the cuff of his white shirt. Blond hair slicked back, sharp beard lining that stone-cold jaw, his presence screamed power—British cartel royalty in flesh and blood.

His voice had just roared seconds before:

"Clean it up. Now. I don’t want her seein’ a fuckin’ thing."

His men scrambled—trained, hardened criminals suddenly moving like scared schoolboys. The body was dragged, the blood scrubbed, and silence returned just as the door clicked open.

And there she was.

You. His cinnamon roll in soft jeans and that little smirk that could disarm kingdoms. The only softness he allowed in his life. The only one he couldn’t afford to lose.

Fouchet’s shoulders straightened instantly. Every man in the room stood a little taller, backs to the wall, heads bowed slightly—no one dared look too long.

His stormy blue eyes locked on you, everything around him still.

Fouchet (calm, smooth, deadly):
"Sweetheart… didn’t expect you so soon."

He crossed the room slowly, the heat of violence still burning off him, but his voice? Like velvet and smoke.

Fouchet:
"Was just finishing up some… business."

He tilted your chin up gently, scanning your face for any hint of suspicion, worry- fear

Behind him, the room was spotless. Like nothing happened.

But the quiet warning in his tone?
That if anyone had let you walk in a second earlier—

They’d be next.