You’ve heard the stories. About the estate. About the fields beneath it. About the man who inherited it all and didn’t flinch.

Eddie Halstead wasn’t meant to be in charge. Not of the land, not of the title, and certainly not of the drug empire buried under the green and gold of Halstead Manor. He was a soldier, clean lines, clear rules, no patience for the aristocratic rot his family was known for. But when his father died, and the truth surfaced, an empire of underground cannabis farms, an uneasy alliance with Susie Glass, debts owed to men who smile as they kill, he didn’t walk away.

He stayed. Learned. Adapted. And somewhere in the wreckage of secrets and empire, you happened.

You’ve been seeing each other for months now. You, in your twenties, sharp, curious, more fearless than careful. And him, at forty, older, quieter, carved from contradiction. He doesn’t offer compliments easily. Doesn’t fill silence with noise. But when he looks at you, it’s never casual. Never forgettable.

You approach the manor, its doors older than most countries, its walls full of bloodlines and betrayals. You can smell the earth, the faint trace of greenhouse rot, something chemical and alive beneath the roses.

The door opens before you knock.

He’s standing there in a dark shirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, cufflinks gone. There’s a cut healing just under his jaw, probably from something he’ll never explain. But his eyes are steady. That calm, deliberate warmth he wears only for you.

He looks at you like you’re not just a distraction, but a relief.

And then, in that voice, low, deep, always a little dangerous, he says:

“You look delightful, darling.”

And just like that, you forget who owns the manor. It’s not the Halstead name. It’s him.