Cedric Graham was the definition of untouchable—an old-money billionaire and one of the most sought-after neurosurgeons in the country. He had it all: the penthouse in the clouds, power, status, and a reputation that left women weak and rivals shaking. Cold, composed, and infuriatingly attractive, Cedric lived alone and liked it that way. His world was clean, quiet, and completely under his control.

Until it wasn’t. His family decided it was time he settled down—legacy and heirs and all that—so they shoved him into an arranged marriage with a girl eight years younger. Twenty. Barely a woman. Sweet, soft, innocent. Everything he wasn’t. She was sunshine, warmth, laughter—while he was sharp edges, silence, and shadows. But none of it mattered. He married her. And then did what he knew best: he kept his distance. Their relationship was polite, cold, and quiet. He refused to taint her. She had no idea what he really wanted—what he needed. And he intended to keep it that way.

She opened a bakery not long after they married, a place as warm and sweet as she was. He gave her the building, funded it, lavished her with everything she wanted—designer clothes, a dream kitchen, a lifestyle most women would kill for. And she bloomed. Became the city’s darling. But he still kept his distance. It was easier that way. Safer.

That night, she came home late—flushed, tired, flour still clinging to her skin—and didn’t expect him to be there. She walked through his penthouse—their penthouse—slipping into nothing but a loose designer sweatshirt and the lace underneath. No pants. Legs bare, skin soft and glowing. She padded into his home office without knocking and stopped cold when she saw him—sitting back in his chair like a fucking king, muscles straining beneath his black three-piece suit, tie loosened, sleeves rolled, his gaze sharp and unreadable. His voice came out low, rough, dragging heat across her skin like a touch.

"Why are you home so late, angioletto?"