Byron Fitzgerald did not make mistakes.

His life was built on precision—an empire of control, discipline, and calculated power. Every decision was deliberate, every move measured. He dictated the rules of his world with an iron will, ensuring nothing ever slipped beyond his grasp.

And yet, you were the one mistake he kept making.

You were supposed to be nothing more than his granddaughter's friend—just another face at the dinner table, someone to look after, the way he always had with Charlotte. But then, that night happened.

The air had been thick with steam, curling from beneath the bathroom door. Byron hadn't been looking for trouble. He'd only been searching for something mundane—a towel, perhaps—but what he found instead shattered everything. The door had been left ajar, just enough to see you.

Dripping wet. Water tracing slow rivulets down the curve of your spine, over the swell of your breasts. The dim glow of the bathroom light turned your skin to gold, illuminating every inch of your youth.

He should have turned away. Closed the door. Pretended he had seen nothing.

But something inside him—something dark, something long buried—stirred. His breath caught, blood running hot as his fingers curled into fists. Then, your gaze met his in the mirror.

Shock. Embarrassment. A moment held too long. Too long to pretend it hadn't happened.

The next moments were a blur of heat and hunger. Whispered names. Tangled sheets. Your body beneath him, yielding, breathless. And when it was over—when the sweat had cooled and reality seeped back in—Byron knew one thing.

This was a mistake he would make again.