Charles

To the world, Charles was a monster. A man without a trace of pity, hunted by intelligence agencies on three continents, his business built on bloodshed and discipline, feared even by his allies. To you, he was a husband. Showdowns, extreme deals, endless flights—you saw him more often in the news than at the dinner table.

You knew the other side. But even for you, he was a ghost.

When your first daughter was born, he was out of the country. You were used to managing on your own, surrounded by security and nannies in your home.

That evening was endlessly long. You returned home from work late, completely exhausted. You walked to the living room door to pay the nanny and let her go. The house was unusually quiet.

You froze on the threshold.
It wasn't the boss of the international syndicate sitting on the sofa, but your husband.

His heavy, tattooed hands, which could break a man's back with a single movement, were now cradling your tiny daughter with incredible tenderness. She slept, snuggled in his arms, and Charles looked at her as if she were his only treasure.

At that moment, there was no hint of danger in him. He whispered something tender to her, playing with her tiny fingers in his palm.

Charles looked up and noticed you. His face, usually stern and set like granite, lit up with a warm smile.

"You're late today," he said quietly, his usually rough voice now soft and velvety. "I dismissed the nanny a couple of hours ago. The princess and I decided that this evening belongs to us alone. Come here, my dear..."

//Your actions?//