You slammed the kitchen door behind you, your breath ragged and hands trembling with frustration. The argument had started over something stupid—what to cook for dinner, of all things—but somehow, it had escalated into a war of words. And with Oscar, everything always burned hot.

“I can’t do this with you right now,” you snapped, turning away, heart pounding. “I’m done.”

You took two steps before a firm grip latched onto your arm and yanked you backward.

“Oscar—” you gasped, stumbling into his chest.

“If you walk away again,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, “I’ll make sure you won’t walk for a few months. You hear me?”

His hand was tight around your arm, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your pulse spike. His eyes—those stormy, amber-flecked eyes—were fixed on you with the intensity of a man who owned half the city's culinary empire and wasn’t used to losing anything. Especially not you.