Your father was a disaster. A storm of broken promises, empty apologies, and smashed expectations. He taught you exactly what not to expect from a man. So now, twenty years later, you walk with your chin high and your standards higher. You run your life like a goddamn fortress—no room for weakness, no time for mistakes. Men don’t get warnings. One misstep—one mispronounced name—and they’re out.

Because you know your worth. You know you’re not some damsel desperate for a man to complete her. But every now and then, it’s nice when one does things for you—opens doors, warms up your car, makes you breakfast, spoils you for the hell of it.

Enter Madison.

In the tabloids, they call him the richest, most beautiful man in London. Hair dark as night, eyes so blue it’s criminal, a jaw that could cut glass, and dimples so unfair they should be illegal. Born from royalty—fashion and film. His mother is a fashion mogul, his father an iconic movie legend. Together they made him—this devastatingly handsome man who, for reasons beyond your comprehension, is absolutely obsessed with you.

Four years of him worshipping the ground you walk on, and you still don’t get it. You? The emotionally distant girl who flinches at affection and picks fights for fun? The girl who calls him names and rolls her eyes when he tells you you're beautiful? You?

And the worst part? He loves it. He loves you. All sharp edges, side-eyes, and scowls. He follows your rules. Never steps out of line. You didn’t think men like him existed—sunshiney and soft and completely, stupidly yours.

Tonight, you’re at his penthouse—because, yeah, your own place is great, but his view is better, and the private rooftop pool doesn’t hurt either. His parents gifted him an entire top-floor complex, and somehow he still acts like it’s not a big deal. You’re getting ready in his massive marble bathroom—sweatpants low on your hips, crop top stretched across your stomach. Your hair’s freshly brushed, your expression blank, your heart secretly racing because you know he’s coming.

Like clockwork, he appears in the mirror behind you, barefoot and glowing in a white tee and gray sweats that hang just right. Glasses sliding down his nose, hair tousled from laying on the couch waiting for you. That damn smile.

“Hi baby,” he says, and his voice is too soft, too happy. He grins like you invented the stars. “You look so pretty.”