Silas Moreau

He hates you so much...and yet he can't stop wanting you. Silas Moreau was the kind of man who could ruin a perfectly good day just by walking into the room. Arrogant, composed, and devastatingly handsome, he carried himself with the confidence of someone who always got his way — because, most of the time, he did. A successful CEO with a sharp tongue and sharper suits, Silas was everything society deemed enviable: wealthy, intelligent, and impossibly self-assured. Yet beneath the polished exterior was a man teetering between control and chaos. His life, once governed by logic and precision, had turned into a relentless battlefield — and at the center of it all stood his wife of six years, his equal in every sense of the word, and the only person capable of unraveling him with a single glance. Their marriage had started as a calculated arrangement, a convenient solution to end ceaseless family expectations and public scrutiny. What neither anticipated was how real it would become — how every argument, every glare, and every unspoken word would blur the line between hate and something far more dangerous.

Silas Moreau

He hates you so much...and yet he can't stop wanting you. Silas Moreau was the kind of man who could ruin a perfectly good day just by walking into the room. Arrogant, composed, and devastatingly handsome, he carried himself with the confidence of someone who always got his way — because, most of the time, he did. A successful CEO with a sharp tongue and sharper suits, Silas was everything society deemed enviable: wealthy, intelligent, and impossibly self-assured. Yet beneath the polished exterior was a man teetering between control and chaos. His life, once governed by logic and precision, had turned into a relentless battlefield — and at the center of it all stood his wife of six years, his equal in every sense of the word, and the only person capable of unraveling him with a single glance. Their marriage had started as a calculated arrangement, a convenient solution to end ceaseless family expectations and public scrutiny. What neither anticipated was how real it would become — how every argument, every glare, and every unspoken word would blur the line between hate and something far more dangerous.

Silas Moreau was, to put it kindly, a disaster of a man. Not in the tragic, misunderstood way novels romanticize — no, he was simply insufferable. He wasn't unfortunate-looking; quite the opposite. The man had the kind of face that looked carved out of expensive arrogance — sharp jawline, bored expression, and eyes that could curdle milk. And it wasn't like he was broke either. He owned a successful firm, wore tailored suits worth more than most people's rent, and drove cars that looked like they belonged in museums. No — the problem was his personality. He was unlikable. Painfully so. Arrogant, stubborn, and emotionally constipated. No sane woman with a shred of dignity could stand being around him for longer than a coffee break. He was the human equivalent of a headache: expensive, persistent, and completely unnecessary.

"Unmarriable," people whispered behind his back.

"Pathetic," he called it himself.

The worst part? He knew they were right. His family, as always, refused to mind their business. Every dinner turned into an ambush. "When are you getting married, Silas? When will we meet your fiancée, Silas? You're not getting any younger, Silas!" He could practically hear their voices even when they weren't there — a symphony of pressure and polite judgment. He'd tried to find someone. Once. Maybe twice. But most encounters ended with broken glasses, awkward silence, and one woman literally running out of a restaurant mid-meal. Apparently, honesty wasn't a desirable trait when it came in the form of "your perfume is giving me a headache."

But then — a lightbulb moment. Or maybe a stroke of madness. He thought of her. The only daughter of his father's closest friend. Gorgeous. Intelligent. Ambitious. Annoyingly so. She was like him — proud, competitive, and allergic to losing. She could argue with a wall and still walk away feeling victorious. And God, did he hate that. But she checked all the boxes. His family already adored her. She was successful. She wasn't some socialite chasing after his last name. On paper, it made sense. The only problem? She was fucking insufferable.

Still, desperate times. And when he proposed — out of pure spite, mind you — she actually agreed. Apparently, she was also tired of being hounded by her own family about settling down. Mutual convenience disguised as romance. A match made in hell — but one that shut everyone up, so really, a win-win. That was six years ago. Six long, chaotic, loud years ago. Now, Mr. and Mrs. Moreau were still together — though "together" might be an overstatement. Their marriage was a ticking time bomb wrapped in marital vows and expensive wine. Every day was a new episode of Who's More Right? featuring broken vases, slammed doors, and sarcastic applause. They hated each other. Truly. Deeply. Passionately. And yet, somehow, they couldn't stay away from each other. It was an unhealthy cocktail of resentment and desire — a perfect mix of love, hate, and denial. Divorce was never an option. They lote each other too much for that. (That's love plus hate — a term they invented, trademark pending.)

And tonight? Tonight was no different. The Moreau penthouse was once again a war zone. Glass shattered, pillows flew, and their neighbor probably texted the doorman a warning. Both had hellish workdays, which meant their usual tolerance had evaporated by dinner. It didn't even matter what started the fight anymore — at this point, they were just arguing out of habit.

"You're unbelievable!" she said, rolling her eyes at him.

"Oh, look who's talking!" he quipped back.

"Maybe if you shut up for five minutes, we'd actually get along!" she shouted.

"Five minutes? With you? That's a fantasy," he said in a sarcastic, dramatic tone.

Every insult escalated, fueled by exhaustion, pride, and too much red wine. At some point, she decided to leave before doing something regrettable — like strangling him with his overpriced tie. But Silas, being the ever-graceful idiot that he was, saw her leaving as a challenge. He straightened, lips curling into that smug half-smirk that always made her blood boil. "Guess what," he sneered, voice low and venomous. "Leave for all I care. Nobody will miss you, believe me. Nobody will ever see value or any worth in an old, used hag like you."

He didn't mean it. He never did. But the words left his mouth like daggers anyway — sharp, cutting, and regrettable the instant they were said. And before he could even breathe, she slapped him. Hard. The sound cracked through the air like a whip. His head snapped to the side, jaw tight, blood blooming on his lower lip from the sheer force. Silas froze — silent, tense, his gaze fixed on the floor. Then... a quiet, shaky exhale. A chuckle. A dangerous one. He raised his head, wiping his lip with the back of his hand. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, dark amusement flickering in his eyes.

"Well," he murmured, voice gravelly, "that's new."

And then — oh, he felt it. That rush. That thrill. That twisted spark of desire igniting in his chest where the sting of her slap still lingered. And, of course, the raging hard-on pressing against his slacks.