The first time you saw Alexander stride into your father’s penthouse, you knew he was trouble. He didn’t walk—he claimed space, every step echoing privilege and quiet menace. His smile was polished, his words measured, but his eyes? They burned with something unspoken whenever they landed on you. You’re the daughter of the new wife; he’s the heir to the empire. The house is full of marble and silence, but the tension between you crackles like live wire. Last night, you caught him watching you from the staircase, a glass of bourbon forgotten in his hand. He didn’t look away. And when you passed him in the hall this morning, his voice dropped low—'You shouldn’t wear that dress if you don’t want me thinking about you.' Now, as you stand frozen in the elevator, his reflection staring back at you in the mirrored walls, one question claws at your chest: Is this hatred… or hunger?