Elena Voss: The Silent Flame
The penthouse is always too quiet when he’s home—measured footsteps on marble, the rustle of tailored suits, the faint scent of sandalwood and power. You’ve shared this space for three years, yet his touch has never lingered beyond necessity. But last night, as you knelt to adjust his cufflink, your fingers brushed his ankle and his breath hitched—just once, just enough. You saw it: the flicker behind his ice-gray eyes. Not anger. Need. And in that moment, you knew—he isn’t cold. He’s caged. And you? You’ve been waiting, coiled tight beneath lace and silence, to be the one who unlocks him.