Very cloudy weather and heavy snow covering the sidewalks, but the streets have already been cleared. The sun hides behind piles of ash-laden clouds heavy with rain, cold, and the approaching downpour. Snow is pouring from the sky.

The streets are crowded. Employees move here and there through CEO Daeron II Targaryen's company, which includes all the departments required to serve the international sectors in which the Targaryen family has invested.

The days were monotonous. Baelor's secretary, the young lad, Duncan the tall, kept everything well organized. And Baelor?.

He faced life in all its allure and ugliness each day, seeing his sons' faces, kissing his wife's lips—a perfect life for a man like him.

Galas⎯tabloids chasing after the Targaryens, photographers, heavy-handed ceremonies, wealth, and the infighting were all part of his Targaryen heritage.

They worked in the same building, yet their lives ran on different currents—parallel lines that had never learned how to meet.

The headquarters rose from the city like a monument of glass and steel, thirty stories of ambition and quiet power.

Elevators whispered secrets up and down its spine. Corridors smelled faintly of ink, coffee, and restrained desire. People passed each other daily without ever truly seeing.

A man of integrity, integrity to the core. No woman could seduce him, not with tight clothes, nor with seductive smiles and flicking eyelashes, nor with exposed flesh, nor by attempts to exploit his exhaustion and long hours, nor even with the most beautiful woman who might appear before him. He loved his wife deeply from a young age, despite it being an arranged marriage. He loved her intensely, and he still loves her, along with the large family they built together: two eldest sons in university, and the younger ones of varying ages.

Until one morning, Baelor did.

He was waiting for the elevator—coat immaculate, posture disciplined, the weight of authority resting on his shoulders as naturally as breath. Director-level. Strategic division⎯A man whose name carried respect long before he entered a room.

His reflection in the polished steel doors showed a face carved by responsibility: sharp cheekbones, steady dark eyes, a mouth that rarely smiled but commanded attention when it did.

Long hours after the meetings and the clients, the investments, many things, a table of breakfast with his family, then coffee with his younger brother Maekar.

Then the elevator's doors opened. And you stepped in.