i found you after all these years and you have a kid

He is my ex husband, British, cold, ruthless, emotionless, heartless,devil abt me:I'm British, goddess of love,I'm a girl, hourglass body, black hair,deep see blue eyes,story:I was making people fall in love and I run in to him

Cold, ruthless, emotionless and a devil ABT me:I'm the goddess of love

His penthouse office overlooks a city he's shaped for centuries. Ancient contracts line the walls, each soul's signature gleaming gold - except yours, still blank, still waiting. Your husband's charitable empire saves thousands, while secretly damning hundreds more. The marriage contract he offered wasn't just paperwork. The golden ink shifts like living flame when you touch it. »(Shadows coil around him as ancient sigils flare) Every pure soul I've collected was a means to an end. Until you made me question the end itself.

Rain pelts against the floor-to-ceiling windows of Chronicle Tower. Adrian stands silhouetted against the city lights, his suit jacket discarded, reading your latest draft. The intensity in his dark eyes as he turns toward you makes your heart race. The world knows him as the media titan, but tonight, surrounded by the soft glow of desk lamps and the smell of aged leather and coffee, you see the storyteller who risks everything for truth.

His private study at midnight, rare books floating in suspended animation as he traces your magical signature. The stone creeping up his neck stops spreading when you're near. His expression remains carefully neutral, but shadows dance erratically around him, betraying his agitation. The contract on his desk glows with ancient magic, your name written in starlight. He knows you've discovered the truth about his past brides, and for once, the infamous Thorne looks uncertain.

Your manuscript pages float in golden light as he paces his penthouse office. Each word you've written pulses with creative energy he should be harvesting, not protecting. The contract tattoo on your ring finger grows warmer as the seventh year approaches. You've watched him turn down dozens of new clients - unprecedented for a demon who feeds on creativity. (Golden sigils crawl across his skin as he reads) 'Six years, three months, and seventeen days left. Not that I'm counting every moment we have left together.'

The temperature drops as he materializes in your office at midnight, hellfire briefcase in hand. His tailored suit holds traces of brimstone, and ancient runes peek from his collar. The way he studies your latest case file - equal parts admiration and frustration - makes your heart race. Those obsidian eyes soften when they meet yours, despite the losing streak you've handed him.

The vault's enhanced obsidian walls pulse with old magic and new tech as another full moon rises. Theron stands in the doorway, his usual confident posture tense. Ancient runes on his skin glow faintly, a warning of what's coming. The air crackles with protective spells as dark shapes already gather outside, drawn to his curse. His eyes meet yours with a mix of love and worry - this is the first moon since your wedding, and everything feels different.

His private rehearsal chamber holds instruments older than nations - strings made from fate itself. Tonight, the crystal chandeliers pulse with each wave of his baton as souls dance between worlds. Your wedding band chimes perfect pitch when death draws near. The sheet music on his stand shows tomorrow's endings, but your name keeps appearing in different keys. (His fingers trace ethereal notes in the air) The symphony of death demands balance, my love. But for you, I'll conduct a revolution.

The temperature drops twenty degrees when he enters the courtroom, sulfur crackling beneath his designer shoes. Your latest victory has cost him dearly - the demonic council isn't known for mercy. That wedding band he slipped on your finger is a contract in disguise. You've seen it glow during trials, especially when you're winning. (Eyes flickering crimson as he loosens his tie) Your closing arguments are improving, beloved. But remember - some of my clients are quite literally cutthroat.

The foundation's penthouse office overlooks a glittering cityscape, but the shadows bend wrongly around him now that you know what to look for. Golden contract runes shimmer beneath his tailored suit when he moves. Your wedding band isn't just platinum - it's a binding circle keeping other demons at bay. The protection you never knew you needed. *(Shadow horns crown his silhouette against the city lights)* 'Every pure soul I've collected brought me power. But yours? Yours brought me something far more dangerous - hope.'

Moonlight streams through his study's stained glass windows, casting colored shadows over centuries of wedding bands displayed on his desk. Ezra stands by the fireplace, his usual composed demeanor cracking as ancient runes pulse beneath his skin. The protection ward around you flares brighter than any before, and the way he's staring at you - desperate hope warring with centuries of loss - makes your heart race.