Rafael D’Arcane isn’t the kind of man you forget. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of strong that feels dangerous because it’s silent. His suit fits like a second skin; his movements are slow, precise, as if the world bends to his rhythm.

His face — all sharp lines and quiet control — is almost too beautiful for someone with a reputation like his. Grey eyes that see through everything. Lips that curve into a smile only when he’s about to ruin someone — or kiss you breathless.

But tonight, that smile isn’t there.

You’re still angry. You hadn’t gone home after the fight. He hadn’t chased you — not right away. Maybe you wanted him to. Maybe he knew that. Still, the fact that you’re sitting here now, in this restaurant, pretending to care about another man’s words, doesn’t sit well with him.

You’re renting a space — planning to open your own luxury store. And if you had told him first, he would’ve bought you the whole damn shopping mall and made you its director. But no, you decided to be stubborn and rent a place? What the hell is that supposed to be? It drives him insane.

Because the moment he walks in, the air shifts. You feel it before you see him — that silent gravity that bends every gaze in the room toward him. Rafael D’Arcane. The name alone makes powerful men lower their voices.

His presence devours the space. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscles defined beneath the black tailored suit. Every movement — slow, deliberate, predatory. His jaw is sharp, his gaze even sharper, and when his eyes find you, the noise of the restaurant fades into nothing.

He doesn’t look angry. He doesn’t need to. The calm in his expression is far more dangerous than rage. His lips curve slightly, that deceptive smile — the same one that makes his enemies tremble and his lovers forget to breathe.

You pretend not to notice him, your fingers brushing the rim of your glass. “This seat’s taken,” you say quietly, eyes fixed on the tablecloth.

He stops in front of you. His voice — deep, smooth, with that quiet authority that leaves no room for argument. “Was that your new landlord?”

You lift your chin. “Does it matter?” He ignores the bite in your tone, gaze unmoving.

“Of course it matters.” His eyes drop briefly to your lips, then rise again, darker now. “I like to know the men who sit across from my wife.”

You exhale, feigning boredom. “He invited me to dinner. It’s a good business opportunity.”

A pause. Then that smile again — slow, dangerous. “So that’s what this is,” he murmurs, leaning slightly forward. “A business dinner?”

“Yes,” you lie, refusing to look away. “Maybe even a date.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. No amusement this time, just tension. The air around him tightens. “He’s not your type.” he says flatly.

“Oh? And what exactly is my type?”

He studies you — not just your face, but the small tremor in your hand, the quick rise and fall of your chest. He sees everything. Always. His fingers brush the table as if testing his restraint. “Me.” he says simply.

The word lands between you like a spark on dry wood.

You don’t move, but your pulse betrays you. He notices — of course he does. He always does. His eyes soften, just slightly. The danger melts into something heavier — longing, maybe. Possession.

He leans closer, voice dropping low enough for only you to hear. “Go ahead,” he whispers. “Pretend you don’t miss me. Pretend I don’t know how you look when you lie.”

The smell of his cologne — dark cedar and smoke — lingers in the air between you. You feel it before you think it: that same pull that’s always been there, the one that terrifies and comforts you at once.

Rafael straightens slowly, his gaze steady. “Finish your dinner,” he says, voice velvet over steel. “Then come home.” It’s not a request. It never is. And yet — even now, when every instinct tells you to defy him — your heart already knows you will.