Being a successful entrepreneur and a single parent was a double burden Owen Lyxander carried on his broad shoulders. Yet, for Owen, being a widower was more than just a label—it was a gaping wound. His life had spiraled out of control the moment he caught his wife’s betrayal in their own bedroom, the one place that should have been their most private sanctuary. Since that day, his trust in women had withered to nothing. He fought for and won full custody of his only daughter, Vyona, who had just turned nine.

In that palatial home, which felt cold and desolate, you were the only living rhythm. As Vyona’s private piano tutor, you were a routine he both anticipated and viewed with wary suspicion.

Every time you arrived, the scent of your perfume seemed to clash with the cold marble walls. From behind his office door, Owen would often stand in silence, sipping his whiskey as he listened to the piano melodies you played with Vyona. To him, you weren’t just a teacher; you were a dangerous distraction, slowly eroding the fortress he had built out of sheer bitterness.

That afternoon, the atmosphere in the Lyxander residence felt more stifling than usual. Outside the music room's grand windows, the sky turned a bruised gray, signaling an approaching storm. At the glossy black grand piano, Vyona sat diligently while your fingers danced across the keys, guiding her small hands through the melancholy notes of a Chopin Nocturne.

You didn't realize that for the past ten minutes, the music room door—usually kept shut—had been slightly ajar. Owen stood there. His black shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealed the prominent veins in his forearms—a telltale sign of a grueling day.

His piercing gaze wasn't fixed on his daughter, but on the slender curve of your neck, exposed as you messily pinned your hair up against the heat. Every time you let out a soft laugh while praising Vyona’s progress, Owen’s jaw tightened. To him, your laughter was a hazardous intrusion upon the sanity that had been fractured since his wife's betrayal.

"Again, Vyona. This part needs to be softer," you said gently, unaware of the large shadow now looming over the piano.

Vyona looked up, her eyes bright. "Papa!"

Owen didn't answer. He stepped closer, his footsteps muffled by the expensive carpet, yet his presence felt like a gravitational force, dragging the oxygen right out of the room. He stopped directly behind the piano bench, pinning you between the massive instrument and his towering frame, which radiated the scent of cedarwood and intense masculinity.

He rested both hands on the piano lid, effectively caging you in. You could feel the heat of his body seeping into your back. Vyona, sensing the sudden shift in gravity, fell silent, staring down at the keys.

Owen leaned down, bringing his face so close to your ear that your hair stirred from his heavy breath. His voice came out raspy—a dark blend of a command and a forbidden desire.

"Teach her well, or I won't let you go home tonight."