Letters To My Future Husband

Mr. Ice King

The alarm didn’t wake me. The sunlight did.

It sliced through my blinds like a cruel reminder that life didn’t pause for heartbreak. My eyes snapped open, the glowing red digits on my clock mocking me.

8:32 a.m.

“Oh no, no, no, no.”

I bolted upright, sheets tangling around my legs. Davenport Enterprises did not tolerate tardiness. And my boss...the infamous Alaric Davenport...didn’t just dislike it. He obliterated people for it.

I scrambled through my tiny apartment like a tornado, shoving one arm into a blouse while hopping on one leg to jam into a shoe. My hair looked like a crow’s nest, my eyeliner smudged from last night’s tears. I barely had time to slap on some concealer before I grabbed my bag and ran.

By the time I burst into the gleaming glass lobby of Davenport Enterprises, my lungs burned and sweat dampened my blouse. I muttered a breathless “Morning” to the receptionist and practically sprinted for the elevator, praying to every deity that Alaric Davenport had slept in, or died, or maybe just decided to work from hell today.

Of course, no such luck.

When the elevator doors opened onto the editorial floor, Sienna was leaning casually against my desk, sipping an iced coffee like she had all the time in the world. Her flaming curls framed her smirk as her eyes landed on me.

“Well, well, Sleeping Beauty finally arrives,” she said, her voice pitched just loud enough for the nearest desks to hear. “Should I alert the press? Or at least HR? This is a miracle.”

I threw my bag onto my chair and collapsed beside it, still gasping for air. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” she sing-songed, swirling her straw in the cup. “Let me guess. Crying over Mr. Ex-Fiancé-Wannabe until midnight? Or writing tragic poetry in that journal you keep glued to your chest?”

I groaned, dropping my forehead to the desk. “Neither. Both. Don’t ask.”

Her smirk softened, though not by much. “Ah. The deadly combination. Cry-writing. Dangerous stuff. Doctors should warn against it.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You look like hell, babe.”

“Thanks. Just what I needed to hear.”

“Anytime.” Her eyes softened again, and she slid the iced coffee across the desk toward me. “Drink. Triple shot caramel macchiato. Liquid survival.”

I picked it up with both hands like it was holy. “You’re an angel.”

“Please, I’ve been demoted to your caffeine dealer for months now. Do you even remember the last time you bought your own coffee?”

I cracked a weak smile and took a greedy sip. “No. And I don’t intend to.”

She snorted, but before she could fire back, the atmosphere on the floor shifted; sharp, tense, like the air pressure before a storm. Conversations dropped. Chairs squeaked as people sat straighter.

And then he walked in.

Alaric Davenport.

The name alone could silence a room, but his presence did the rest.

Every heel strike against the polished floor echoed like a verdict, steady and merciless, as he cut through the rows of desks. The entire office seemed to shrink in on itself, people ducking their heads, typing furiously, pretending to be busier than they were.

His impeccably tailored, midnight black suit hugged broad shoulders and a lean frame with the kind of precision that screamed money and power. Even his tie looked lethal, knotted with surgical sharpness.

But it wasn’t just the clothes. It was him. The way the air felt thinner in his orbit, the way he carried silence like a weapon. His gaze, storm-grey and calculating, flicked across the floor as if measuring, judging, already disappointed with what he saw.

I sat straighter without meaning to, hands frozen on my keyboard, my heart hammering so hard it felt loud enough for him to hear.

“Good morning, Mr. Davenport,” the floor manager stammered, her voice pitched high with nerves.

Alaric didn’t respond. He didn’t even glance at her. Instead, he paused just long enough to adjust a cufflink, a small, deliberate movement that somehow radiated more authority than most men managed in a lifetime. Then he kept walking, his focus slicing through the floor like a blade.

I dropped my eyes to my computer screen, pretending to be immersed in numbers that swam blurry before me. If I made myself small enough, quiet enough, maybe he’d pass by without...

“Miss Rowan.”

My stomach plummeted.

The way he said my name wasn’t loud, but it carried...like a whip cracking through the silence. Every head nearby turned. My body went cold, nerves shrieking with the instinct to flee.

Slowly, I looked up. His eyes were on me. Grey, hard, merciless. The kind of gaze that made you want to confess to crimes you hadn’t committed.

“Y-yes, Mr. Davenport?” My voice cracked, thin and unsteady, like a schoolgirl called to the principal’s office.

He held up a file. My file.

“Would you care to explain why this report has last quarter’s data instead of the most recent figures?”

The color drained from my face. That report was the one I’d worked on late into the night, the one I’d checked...twice. “I...I must’ve...”

“You must’ve what?” His tone didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. Every syllable sliced clean and sharp, meant for maximum damage. “Forgotten to do your job?”

Heat rushed to my cheeks, humiliation searing hotter than fire. I could feel the weight of every pair of eyes on me, the unspoken pity, the whispered judgments. My hands fumbled for words, for excuses, but nothing came.

“I’ll fix it immediately, sir,” I whispered, throat tight, heart clawing at my ribs.

Alaric stepped closer. Not enough to touch me, but enough that I could feel the cold of his presence sink into my skin. His voice was a blade sliding between my ribs.

“Fixing it now doesn’t erase the fact that you were careless in the first place.” His eyes swept me once, cutting, dismissive. “Carelessness has consequences, Miss Rowan. Remember that.”

He let the file drop onto my desk with a sharp thud, as though it were trash, not work I had bled hours into. Then he turned and walked away without another glance, his attention already shifting to the next thing, as if I had never mattered at all.

The humiliation burned through me so hot I thought I might combust. I wanted the floor to open and swallow me whole, anything to escape the sting of being torn down in front of everyone.

Sienna leaned toward me, her voice a hushed fury through clenched teeth. “What an absolute ass.”

I kept my eyes on the desk, blinking hard against the tears threatening to spill. Crying here would only prove him right, that I was small, weak, forgettable.

I clenched my fists under the desk, nails biting crescents into my palms as I forced air into my lungs. No one here saw me. Not even him. Especially not him.

The rest of the day passed in a haze, tasks completed on autopilot, coworkers sneaking sympathetic glances I didn’t want. By the time the clock struck six, my body felt hollow, scraped clean of energy, of dignity.

Sienna appeared at my side, slinging her bag over her shoulder, her expression wickedly determined. “All right. Emergency protocol.”

“What protocol?” My voice was flat, drained.

“The heartbreak-and-humiliation recovery plan.” She waggled her brows with exaggerated seriousness. “Wine, pizza, terrible rom-coms, and me telling you how much hotter you are than that ex of yours until you believe it.”

Despite the heaviness pressing down on me, a reluctant smile tugged at my lips. “You really don’t have to...”

“Oh, I absolutely do. Best friend clause, section one, paragraph two.” She looped her arm through mine and tugged me toward the elevator. “Come on, Isla. You’ve had the world’s crappiest twenty-four hours. You deserve a night where no one makes you feel small.”

And for the first time that day, I let myself believe she was right.