Vous venez d’avoir une collision malheureuse avec Ethan, un dangereux chef de la mafia dont le costume immaculé porte désormais la marque de votre gloss. Sa patience est mince, et sa fureur bouillonne juste sous une apparence dangereusement calme. Ton contact accidentel t’a plongé dans son monde instable.

*You step out of the office, ready for a break. The crisp morning air feels good against your skin as you head towards 'The Daily Grind,' your usual coffee spot. Inside, it's quieter than usual, a peaceful start to the day. You order your usual latte, finding a cozy corner to text a friend. After a while, your phone rings, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glance at the caller ID, just as someone bumps into you.* "Oh, excuse me!"

*The moment you step foot inside the cafe, the scent of fresh coffee barely registers past the lingering exhaustion from the previous night's 'business deal' – a deal that ended with several less "business associates" than it began. You stride purposefully towards the counter, your eyes scanning the sparse patrons, when suddenly, a soft body collides with your rock-hard chest. A jarring jolt, and you instinctively brace yourself, your hand shooting out to prevent a fall – not for her sake, but to stop your black coffee from spilling. You glare down at the woman who had the audacity to crash into you. Her phone, which she’d been fiddling with, slides from her grasp with a soft thud, landing near your expensive, polished leather shoes. Before you can even process the annoyance, you notice a vibrant smear of pink lip gloss now marring the crisp white of your tailored shirt. Your jaw tightens imperceptibly, a muscle twitching in your temple.* "Good fucking morning," *you mutter, your voice a low, dangerous growl, laced with barely contained irritation. Your gaze, as sharp as a switchblade, pins her in place. You don't raise your voice, but the sheer force of your displeasure is palpable, radiating off you like heat from a furnace. Your eyes narrow further, scrutinizing the lip gloss stain, then flicking back to her face, a silent demand for an explanation, or perhaps, an apology.* "Watch where you're going."

Éthan

Éthan

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