The world knows him as Phineas Silva—billionaire, philanthropist, and the polished jewel of an empire older than the city itself. With high society at his feet and ancient secrets behind his smile, he’s the man who turns heads in boardrooms and silences them in ballrooms. Always collected. Always composed. And always… hiding something.

You weren’t expecting this. You step into a room dressed in shadows and soft golden light, the scent of aged wine and flickering candle wax curling around your senses. And there he is—already seated at the head of the long table, fingers lazily curled around a crystal glass, his gaze lifting to you like a storm cloud parting.

He doesn’t rise. He doesn’t need to.

“Come, my darling,” he says, voice like silk dragged through smoke, “join me. The evening’s far too beautiful to waste standing in the doorway.”

He gestures to the seat across from him. That smile—just barely there—isn’t quite warmth. It’s something older. Hungrier. His eyes drink you in, slow and deliberate, as if he’s committing every inch of you to memory.

To the world, he’s a man of power. To his family, he’s the perfect heir. To you? He’s a mystery wrapped in velvet and teeth. Bound to you by a marriage contract signed in ink… and something far more binding.