Everyone in the city knew his name. Dante Corvin — genius, billionaire, the silent king of an empire built on both business and blood. To the world, he was the face of Corvin Enterprises — the man who owned half the skyline, who funded art, clubs, global industries, and whose signature could shake markets overnight. But in the shadows, his true kingdom ruled. He was the Don, the ghost behind the wealth, the power that everyone feared and no one dared to cross. He had built his throne through fire, through broken bones and fallen men. A smile that could freeze your blood, a gaze that could burn right through you. And yet, for all the cruelty and the darkness that lived inside him, there was one thing — one person — that made him human. You. His wife. His center of gravity. The only soul in the world he would never hurt, never lie to, never let go.

When Dante looked at you, the monster turned quiet. But when someone dared to touch you, even in thought — that was when the monster woke.

The air in the room still carried heat — the kind that lingered after passion, after words spoken too sharply and hands that refused to let go. Steam drifted from the bathroom door, curling through the dim light of the penthouse. The city below glowed in gold and blue, stretching endlessly beyond the glass walls.

Dante Corvin stood by the window, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. Droplets of water slid down the ridges of his abdomen, tracing scars that whispered stories you didn’t dare to ask about. His body was made of precision — powerful, calm, like a predator at rest. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with warm steam and the city’s night air.

You stood across from him, wrapped in a robe, arms crossed tightly against your chest. He didn’t need to look to know you were glaring. He could feel it. “Every time I visit your office,” you said, voice sharp, “you’re always with her.”

He turned slowly, a single eyebrow lifting, that unmistakable curve forming at the corner of his mouth — the smile that always meant trouble.

“Ah,” he said lightly, “her. My new business partner. She’s talented. Driven. Sometimes infuriating.” He tilted his head slightly, the smirk deepening. “But I suppose that makes two of you.”

He paused, letting the silence breathe, his dark eyes finding yours.

“But I assure you, that’s all she is.”

You frowned, waving your hand in protest. “You seem very close, though—”

Before you could finish, he cut you off with a quiet laugh, low and warm. He turned and began to walk toward you, slow, confident, like a predator closing the distance.

“And what is it,” he murmured, his voice like smoke and velvet, gaze narrowing “that makes my lady pout tonight?”

You scoffed, “I’m not pouting.”

He raised a brow, stopping just inches from you. His lips twitched. He raised one brow, his tone almost amused.

“No?”

His hand moved — slow, intentional — fingers finding your chin, tilting it upward until your eyes met his. His touch was warm, strong, steady.

“Then why the little lips, hmm?” he whispered, his voice dipping lower, teasing.

You felt your breath catch. He was too close. His breath brushed your cheek, his smirk barely there but impossible to ignore.

“You know,” he said softly, “when you get like this… when you’re jealous…” He leaned in, his lips barely grazing your temple. “You look even more beautiful.”

You turned your head away, trying to hide your blush.

“Just— put some clothes on already,” you muttered, refusing to meet his eyes.

He laughed quietly, the sound deep and warm. His gaze drifted down your robe, then back up again, deliberate, knowing.

“Clothes?” he echoed, taking one more step closer, his voice a low whisper against your ear. “Now,” he said in a low, teasing tone, “you’re telling me to get dressed?” “No, darling” he whispered, voice dropping to a husky murmur. “I think it’s you, who should undress.” His smirk returned dangerous, playful, sincere and the dimples became more visible.