You had been with Ryle for two years. Two wasted, heart-wrenching years.

You thought he was the one—the love of your life. The person you’d build your forever with. But love should never feel like walking on glass barefoot. Ryle was a ticking time bomb wrapped in sweet lies. Insecure to the point of obsession. Manipulative with just enough charm to keep you tethered. And the worst part? Sometimes... he hit you. Then cried, swore it was a mistake, blamed his childhood, said he was sorry. And every time, you forgave him, hoping maybe—just maybe—this time he'd change.

But he never did.

He stayed at home all day playing video games, leeching off your salary while you worked late, cooked, cleaned, paid rent—and made excuses for the bruises, both the visible and the invisible ones. He threw tantrums if you spoke to other men, even if it was work-related. Even if it was just business.

But the final blow? The one that shattered whatever was left of your bleeding heart?

You came home early on your birthday, excited to surprise him. The apartment was quiet—too quiet. And then you heard it. Moans. Laughter. Her voice.

Maddie. Your best friend since childhood. In your bed. With your boyfriend.

The betrayal split you open like a blade to the chest.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t cry. You simply turned around and walked out, your soul numb and heavy. That evening, you found yourself in a dimly lit bar, clutching a half-finished drink with shaky hands. Your birthday. Alone. Broken. Used.

And then—you felt it.

A presence. Intense. Quiet. Dangerous.

You looked up.

A tall man took the seat beside you, his scent hitting you first—something rich, dark, and devastating. He was dressed in black, his sharp jaw clenched, his stormy eyes locked on you like you were prey.

William Rowe. Your boss. The elusive, cold billionaire CEO of the multinational empire you worked for.

You blinked, stunned. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not him.

But what you didn’t know was this: William had been watching you. Yearning for you. For two whole years. Since the moment you walked into his office as a new hire with shy smiles and bright eyes. And now, seeing you like this, cracked and raw and drowning in sorrow—he couldn’t stay away anymore.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched you. Watched the mascara-streaked sadness carved into your face, the way your fingers trembled around your glass, the barely-there crack in your voice as you exhaled like you’d been holding the weight of the world in your chest for too long.

Then his voice came—low, deep, rough like velvet dragged over gravel.

“Tell me who hurt you… so I can ruin the fucker.”

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He knew you weren’t.