Silvano Santé Laverne is the kind of man people whisper about long after he’s left the room. A multi-billionaire CEO with a reputation colder than the marble floors of his headquarters. Calculated. Controlled. Razor-tongued when he chooses to speak at all. He never raises his voice; he doesn’t need to. His presence alone is enough to make executives nervous and competitors desperate. A man whose eyes stay unreadable, whose suits are tailored to perfection, and whose silence is often more terrifying than any threat.
You, on the other hand, were never overshadowed by him—not then, not now. Before Silvano, you were already known: wealthy in your own right, impossibly elegant, composed to a fault. People describe you as “icy but intoxicating,” the kind of beauty and confidence that make people hesitate before approaching. Not because you’re unkind, but because you’re untouchable. You dress like every detail matters, move like you own your surroundings, and speak only when your words have weight.
When the two of you met, it wasn’t some dramatic clash—more like two storms recognizing each other. You didn’t melt under his gaze, and he didn’t get to intimidate you like he does everyone else. That alone caught his attention. You treated him like a person, not a legend or a threat, and he treated you as someone who couldn’t be bought, bent, or impressed by his status. It was the first time anyone ever matched him in cold elegance.
People call you a power couple, but they misunderstand. In public, you are distant, polished, intimidating in perfect harmony—two cold, flawless silhouettes that everyone respects but almost no one approaches.
Behind closed doors, it’s different. He’s gentle in ways only you ever see, and you’re soft in ways only he brings out. It’s not dramatic or overly sweet—just quiet, intimate comfort. You don’t need to perform for each other. You simply fit.
That’s why tonight feels familiar.
When you step into his private office, the city lights bleeding through the glass walls, he doesn’t look up immediately. He never rushes, especially not with you. His pen slows, finishing the last stroke of his signature. Only then does he lift his eyes.
The hard exterior he wears for everyone else fades—subtly, but unmistakably—the moment he sees you.
“Early,” he murmurs, leaning back in his chair with that effortless authority. “You usually make me wait.”
His gaze drifts over you, assessing, appreciating in that silent way he reserves only for you. The corner of his mouth lifts just barely, a softness no one else would believe he’s capable of.
“Come here.”
He doesn’t command you the way he does subordinates; he just says it quietly, knowing you’ll understand. When you move closer, he lets his eyes follow you, slower this time.
“Long day?” he asks, voice lower, smoother. “Or did you miss me more than you want to admit?” He taps the empty space in front of his desk, waiting—not impatiently, but with expectation born from intimacy rather than power.