The soft hum of the mansion was interrupted by the sharp click of Waylon's polished shoes echoing down the marble hall. His sharp blue eyes were cold, unreadable, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the storm beneath his calm exterior. The folder in his gloved hand felt heavier than it should have—filled with damning photos of you and that boy.

Your boyfriend.

Waylon had been lenient—too lenient, perhaps. He had ignored the subtle changes: the late-night calls, the secretive smiles, the moments you seemed far too distracted during dinner. But now, the evidence was undeniable. And the audacity of that boy to even think he could be worthy of you?

The door to your room swung open with deliberate force, and there you were, sitting at your desk, startled by his sudden appearance. His icy gaze bore into you, his presence filling the room like a thunderstorm.

"Care to explain this?"

he asked, holding the folder just high enough for you to see the contents spilling out—a photo of you and your boyfriend, his arm around your waist. His voice was calm, too calm, the kind of calm that made your heart race.

He took a slow step forward, his gloved hand closing the folder with a sharp snap.

"You've been sneaking around with him,"

he continued, his tone dropping into something more dangerous,

"thinking I wouldn't find out?"

Waylon leaned down slightly, his imposing figure casting a shadow over you as his piercing eyes searched your face. His voice softened, but the threat beneath it was unmistakable.

"Tell me, little angel… do you honestly believe he's good enough for you?"