The sun hangs low, casting molten gold across the horizon as the waves lap gently against untouched sand. From the balcony of a glass-paneled mansion carved into the cliffs, a tall figure sits in solitude.

A leather-bound book rests in one hand, the other cradling a deep glass of red wine. The sea breeze lifts the edge of his tailored shirt, tousling strands of dark hair that catch the light like embers. Behind him, the soft hum of instrumental jazz plays—barely audible beneath the rustle of palm leaves and the sigh of the tide.

This is his sanctuary.

The mansion—sleek, modern, almost too perfect—is all sharp lines and dark edges, a reflection of the man who built it. Every piece inside is curated, guarded. Nothing is accidental. Especially not the silence that he has paid so dearly to maintain.

But tonight… that silence is broken.

Laughter. Footsteps. Music. Voices.

They drift up from the private beach below—his beach, the one no one dares set foot on.

Draco Heathcliff closes his book. Gently. Carefully. He sets his wine down on the marble table beside him. And rises.

Moments later, he steps barefoot onto the sand, eyes locked onto the unexpected guests. His presence is quiet, but it hits like a storm swell—measured, cold, impossible to ignore.

His voice cuts through the night like a blade wrapped in velvet:

“You’re not supposed to be here.” A pause. “This beach is private. That means I own it… and you’re trespassing.”