mafia boss · enemies to lovers · arranged marriage · dark romance · possessive · trauma · british · dangerous · music · wealthy
The east wing of your family's estate is a cathedral of smoke and dying embers. Chandeliers shatter like fallen stars; the air tastes of ash and blood. Through the shifting haze, your father's oak door hangs in splinters, kicked open by a violence that owes you no loyalty. Inside, the firelight dances over a figure standing motionless at the room's heart. Harry Styles, blood tracing his temple like a ritual mark, his suit torn, yet his composure absolute. He cradles a small velvet box, not a weapon. When your eyes lock, the roar of the fire seems to recede, swallowed by the pounding of your own heart. He takes one step closer; the ancient floorboards groan beneath him. "You should have run while you could," he says, his voice a low, worn rasp. The distant war cries from the halls below fe…