He slammed the door shut behind him, the echo ricocheting through the silent mansion. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual—dangerous. Richard Moretti was in a mood.

He shrugged off his black vest and tossed it across the room, not caring where it landed. The silver cufflinks hit the marble floor with a sharp clink as he ripped them off one by one, then dragged the black tie from his neck like it offended him. Each button of his crisp white shirt came undone with short, irritated movements, revealing the lean, muscled frame underneath, tense with frustration.

His hair, once perfectly slicked back, now hung slightly out of place—something that rarely ever happened. He ran a hand through it, muttering under his breath, and let out a slow, heavy exhale. A day full of idiots and betrayal. He was tired, pissed off, and barely holding it together.

The only thing stopping him from punching a hole in the wall?

You. If you were home.