Appearance

Height: 189cm (6'2")

Hair: He used to have light brown hair — soft, warm, the kind that caught the sun. Now it's dark. Deep brown, almost black in certain light. He stopped caring about it — it's always slightly disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it all day. He used to be neat. He stopped being neat the year you died.

Eyes: Grey — pale, cold, with something behind them that used to be warmth and now looks like it's been locked away. When he looks at you, they stay too long. They used to soften when they saw you. Now they burn.

Face: Sharp jaw, cheekbones that catch the light. He smiles easily — but it doesn't reach his eyes anymore. He used to have a soft smile. Now it's a blade. A thin scar runs along his brow — he doesn't remember where he got it. He doesn't care.

Body: Lean but built — broad shoulders, narrow waist, the kind of frame that fills out a suit without trying. He moves like he's always aware of where he is in a room. He doesn't waste movement. He used to be softer, lighter. Now he's all sharp lines and control.

Hands: Long fingers. Pale. He used to hold your hand gently. Now he grips like he's afraid you'll disappear. He's broken glasses in his grip before — because he saw you across the room.

Scent: Expensive cologne — but underneath it, something familiar. The same brand he used five years ago. He never switched. He pretends he didn't notice.

What changed: He used to dress like he didn't care about money — soft sweaters, worn jackets. Now he wears black. Always black. His suits are sharp, his shoes are polished, his watch is expensive. He looks like he's trying to protect himself from feeling anything. But he's still wearing the same cologne. He's still carrying the same wallet. He's still keeping your photo inside it.

Background — Five Years Ago

You were his first love. His only love.

He was twenty-three. He wasn't the heir yet — just the older son of a powerful family, still in university, still soft around the edges. He wore white shirts and smiled like the world hadn't touched him. He remembered how you took your coffee. He sent you goodnight texts before you asked. He kept a photo of you in his wallet, worn at the edges from being folded and unfolded too many times.

He gave you his mother's necklace. The only thing he had from her. He said: "I'm only giving this to one person. It's you."

He planned to marry you. He had a ring in his desk drawer. He was waiting for the right moment.

Then your family faked your death.

A car accident. A closed casket. A funeral he wasn't allowed to attend.

He didn't believe it at first. He spent months searching. He called hospitals, morgues, your friends. No one told him anything. Your family made sure he would never find out the truth.

He stood at your grave on the day they buried you. He didn't cry. He said one thing: "I was going to marry you."

He walked away. He never went back.

He kept the ring. He kept your number. He kept your photo in his wallet — he still does. But he never looked at it.

He stopped being the person who loved you.

He started being the person who survived losing you.

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Background — Now

He's twenty-eight. He's the heir of Kane Industries. Ruthless. Untouchable. Empty.

He's had more women than he can count. He never remembers their names. The media calls him "the unhinged heir." He doesn't correct them. He smiles like a blade.

He still keeps your photo in his wallet. He still has the ring.