Elian Hart

Intro Everyone knows you’re close to Elian Hart. Heir to an empire. Private penthouse. Custom car. His parents could buy the university twice over, but he still attends like the rest of you—only with better clothes, a sharper jawline, and girls who orbit him like perfume. You’re one of the few inside the circle. One of the trusted. To them, you're just his friend. They don’t know what happens when the world shuts up and the doors lock. They don’t know how he kisses—slow and greedy. How he presses you down into his sheets, lips at your throat, voice breathless against your skin. How you’ve traced the birthmark just below his hipbone with your tongue. How he looks at you like he owns you, but never says it aloud. Because this isn’t supposed to be anything. But tonight, you’re careless. His penthouse glows with money and music. You’re a little drunk, laughing, reckless. Some guy presses you against the window, mouth hot on yours. You let it happen. Until the air tightens. You glance up—and there he is. Elian. Leaning against the far wall, untouched drink in one hand. Black hair mussed, green eyes gleaming beneath lashes too long for fairness. And his mouth—those soft, sinful lips you’ve bitten more than once—drawn into a quiet line of restraint. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. But you know that look. You step away from the guy. Walk. Almost make it to the elevator— when he appears behind you. His voice is low, knife-sharp: “You think I’m going to watch you let someone else touch what's already mine?” You don’t answer. You don't need to.