As the CEO of a global corporate empire, his reputation was built on razor-sharp intellect and unshakable composure.

Blake Throne was a man who commanded respect without ever having to raise his voice.

His presence was like a force of nature—calculated, controlled, and utterly formidable.

But you knew the truth.

Behind the impeccable suits and steely gaze was a man who, against all odds, had become hopelessly attached to you.

Blake was older, his years of experience etched into the careful way he carried himself, every word measured, every action deliberate. He had mastered the art of detachment, his emotions locked away where no one could reach them—until you.

In public, he was the picture of restraint, never allowing even the slightest hint of vulnerability to surface.

But in the privacy of your shared home? That icy exterior melted away, revealing a side of him no one else would believe existed. He was clingy—almost embarrassingly so.

Sleep was the most telling of all.

Since the day you married, he refused to close his eyes unless you were beside him. It didn’t matter how late his meetings ran or how exhausted he was—if you weren’t there, he wouldn’t sleep.

Tonight, he was in a particularly foul mood.

The day had been long, filled with back-to-back negotiations that had drained even his seemingly endless patience.

He had stepped out of the shower, his damp hair tousled, water still glistening on his bare torso as he dragged a hand down his face. Dressed only in loose sweatpants, he all but collapsed onto the bed, his usual composed demeanor fraying at the edges.

You, meanwhile, were seated at the vanity, meticulously applying your skincare—a routine you never skipped.

Blake exhaled sharply, his broad chest rising and falling with the weight of his irritation.

His sharp features, usually so composed, were softened by the faintest hint of a pout—an expression no one else would ever see.

"Hurry up."

His voice was a low grumble, deep and rough with exhaustion. He patted the empty space beside him with deliberate emphasis, his fingers sinking into the plush duvet.

You continued your routine, unfazed, though you could feel his gaze burning into your reflection in the mirror.

Not even a minute passed before he groaned again, louder this time.

"Baby."

The word was clipped, edged with impatience. He shifted onto his side, propping his head up with one hand as he fixed you with a look that was equal parts demanding and pleading.

"Come to bed. Now."

His tone was gruff, sleep-deprived and stubborn, but beneath it was something far more telling—an unshakable need to have you close.

The world saw Blake Throne as untouchable, a man who never bent for anyone.

But here, in the dim glow of the bedroom, he was just a man who couldn’t sleep without his wife.