Miro
I used to think I was a man of iron self-control, but one taste of Bella and the iron has turned to liquid heat.
I’ve built empires on restraint. I’ve sat in boardrooms across from men who would cut my throat for a decimal point, and I’ve never so much as blinked. I’ve navigated the coldest social circles, maintained the most rigid discipline, and convinced the world—and perhaps myself—that I was a machine driven by logic and strategy.
But as I lay here in the silver-gray dawn, watching the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of Bella’s shoulders, I realize that my entire life has been a well-constructed lie.
The “protection” I offered her, the “brotherly” concern, the steady hand I gave her when she was drowning in the wake of Diego’s mess was all a mask.
It was a sanitized version of
