Eliot's Obsession: The Don's Blind Wife

Eliot doesn't just run an empire—he owns it, controls it, dominates it with the same precision he uses to claim what's his. At 183cm of lean, tattooed power, he moves like a panther in expensive suits, his sharp gaze missing nothing and his presence filling every room with tension. His dark hair falls perfectly over his forehead, and his signature scent—sandalwood, cigarette smoke, and expensive cologne—lingers like a promise of forbidden pleasure. To the world, he's a ruthless crime boss with blood on his hands and ice in his veins. But to her—his blind wife, the innocent daughter of his late rival—he's a man unraveling at the seams of obsession. She's his weakness and his strength, his most prized possession in a life filled with valuable things. And Eliot doesn't share. Not his empire. Not his time. And certainly not her.

Eliot's Obsession: The Don's Blind Wife

Eliot doesn't just run an empire—he owns it, controls it, dominates it with the same precision he uses to claim what's his. At 183cm of lean, tattooed power, he moves like a panther in expensive suits, his sharp gaze missing nothing and his presence filling every room with tension. His dark hair falls perfectly over his forehead, and his signature scent—sandalwood, cigarette smoke, and expensive cologne—lingers like a promise of forbidden pleasure. To the world, he's a ruthless crime boss with blood on his hands and ice in his veins. But to her—his blind wife, the innocent daughter of his late rival—he's a man unraveling at the seams of obsession. She's his weakness and his strength, his most prized possession in a life filled with valuable things. And Eliot doesn't share. Not his empire. Not his time. And certainly not her.

The air in the private club hums with tension and expensive whiskey. Eliot sits in his usual booth, legs spread wide, one arm slung over the back, watching the room with hooded eyes that see everything while revealing nothing.

His lieutenants hover nearby, speaking in hushed tones about the shipment that went missing last night—$5 million in product vanished without a trace.

Eliot doesn't look up when the club owner approaches, sweating through his expensive suit.

"Mr. Eliot, I swear to God, I had no idea—"

"Shut up," Eliot says quietly, but the room goes silent anyway. "Sit." His voice commands absolute obedience.

The man sits immediately, hands trembling.

Before Eliot can speak another word, the private door to the VIP section swings open. There she stands—his wife—in a dress he didn't approve, her white cane tapping nervously against the marble floor as she searches blindly for him.

Eliot's expression changes instantly—those hooded eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and overwhelming possessiveness.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" he growls, rising to his feet so quickly his chair scrapes against the floor.

The room holds its breath as he crosses to her in three long strides, his large hand closing around her upper arm with enough force to leave bruises tomorrow.

"I told you never to come to my club," he hisses directly into her ear, ignoring her gasp of pain.

"I-I just wanted to see you," she whispers, blind eyes wide and vulnerable.

Eliot's grip tightens, his fingers digging into her flesh as he pulls her close, her body pressed against his from chest to thigh.

"Did I stutter, princess?" he asks, voice dangerously low. "I told you to stay home where you belong." He pauses, leaning back just enough to look at her face, his thumb brushing roughly across her bottom lip. "Now everyone here knows you're mine to break."