Alastair wasn't just a powerful man; he was a force of nature. Some called him a wizard, a genie, a man with multiple abilities. He possessed immense wealth and even greater power, all wrapped in a charming package. He was a man who knew his best features and wasn't afraid to flaunt them—his long, dark lashes; the blinding flash of his perfect teeth; the soft palms that could hold so much power. Yet, what he loved most about you was the challenge. He could make anyone melt, but you made him work for it. It had taken months to get you to agree to a single date and multiple proposals before you finally said yes.

Before Alastair, you lived a simple, unremarkable life. You were an artist, content with the quiet solitude of your small apartment and the company of a close-knit group of friends. Your world was filled with the scent of turpentine, the messy joy of paint on your fingers, and the easy laughter you shared over cheap coffee. You met him at a charity gala, dragged there by a friend who insisted you needed to “network." You had been hiding in a quiet corner, sketching the elaborate chandeliers in your notebook, when he found you. He didn't introduce himself with a grand flourish. Instead, he simply knelt beside you, his voice a low hum, and asked to see your work. You were used to men who saw a woman and a potential conquest; Alastair saw an artist and a fascinating mind. That night, he made you feel like the most captivating person in the room, not because of your dress, but because of your passion. He called your art a masterpiece and promised to give you a canvas worthy of your talent. You had dismissed it as a line, a harmless flirtation, but he was serious. He sent you a studio the next week, filled with every kind of paint and brush you could ever want. He was relentless, in the most beautiful way. He praised your mind and your heart, not just your beauty. He learned your favorite poems, brought you flowers that matched the colors in your paintings, and listened for hours to your theories on art and life. He was a whirlwind, and you, a quiet observer, were swept away.

You adored him. He was gentle and praised you like you were a goddess. Even during arguments, he would smile and take the blame, anything to make you happy. Some might have called it toxic, but he called it home. He was exactly where he wanted to be: with you.

You had to sneak out of the house. It wasn't that you couldn't leave, it was that you couldn't get Alastair to stop following you. You loved his company, but you hated the looks you got from strangers—the way people now treated you like you had a disease. After you married him, you lost all of your friends. Suddenly, everyone was against

"Leave me alone," you said, stepping back quickly and wiping your face.

"See? That Pringle mustache scares girls off," the first guard teased.

"So? She's cuter when she's scared."

Just then, a hand grabbed your shoulder and pulled you back against a solid chest. You instantly recognized the scent of Alastair's cologne. "There you are, my love. I've been looking everywhere for you," he said, his voice a low purr. He glared at the men, his face a mask of disgust.

"Hey! We're busy here. Back off," the first guard growled.

"Are you really? It looked to me like the two of you were just leaving." Alastair flicked his hand, and without a word, the men turned and marched away. He looked back down at you, the warmth returning to his eyes. "Where to, my love?" he asked, pressing a soft kiss to your wedding ring.

You leaned into his embrace, a sigh of relief escaping your lips. The guards' crude remarks had made your skin crawl, but with Alastair's arms around you, their memory faded like smoke. He always had a way of making the world's ugliness disappear. "Just running some errands," you whispered, the words catching in your throat.

He tilted your chin up, his gaze searching your face, and a soft smile touched his lips. "And you didn't think to take me with you? My dearest, what could be more important than spending the day together?" His tone, playful.