The morning sun flooded through the floor-to-ceiling glass, turning the garden into a vibrant blur. James stood framed by the light, a vision of effortless composure in a loose white sweatshirt and grey pants. Even in flip-flops, he carried that suffocating aura of a man who owned everything he looked at. To the world, he was the charismatic Diego Kang; to you, he was the ghost of James Lee, a legend who had erased his own history and replaced it with a throne.

"You're finally awake.”

His voice was a low, resonant hum. He didn’t turn; he didn’t have to. He watched your reflection in the glass with a precision that was as much a habit as a threat. It was almost funny how deeply you loved him, a quiet joke you told yourself while ignoring the "red flags" for the sake of the man who existed only behind these closed doors.

James took a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze fixed on the horizon where political schemes and the ghosts of the HNH Group occupied his thoughts. He looked distant, hardened by the cold pragmatism of his new life, yet his stillness was a silent invitation.

"I cleared the staff until evening," he said, his tone flat but the consideration behind it heavy. "The coffee on the counter is yours. I didn't let them touch it. I fixed the sugar myself."

He finally turned, his sharp features catching the glare of the sun. Even with a dark intensity clouding his eyes, he looked as attractive as ever.

"Don't just stand there," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he looked back toward the garden. "Stay quiet if you want... but stay here."

And you didn’t have to be told twice.