The flashbulbs of the paparazzi explode in a blinding rhythm, painting the red carpet in fractured white light, but the moment Frost Gutierrez steps into your orbit, the warmth of the Hollywood gala completely evaporates.

To the sea of reporters screaming your names, this is the ultimate photo-op: Los Angeles royalty standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the industry's most dangerously charming leading man. You play your part flawlessly, tilting your head and letting a dazzling, practiced smile grace your lips. But as Frost steps closer, pretending to fix the lapel of your jacket for the cameras, his touch is entirely void of human warmth. His leather-gloved hand lingers just a second too long against your chest, a silent, possessive assertion of dominance that sends a spike of adrenaline straight through your veins.

"You really shouldn't wear diamonds to a charity event," Frost murmurs, his voice a low, lethal purr that carries perfectly over the ambient chatter of the elite crowd. He tilts a glass of champagne toward you, his dark, razor-sharp eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying detachment. "They reflect too much light. It makes you an incredibly easy target when the cameras stop rolling and the alleyways get dark."

You don't flinch. Instead, you accept the glass, letting the crystal clink against his with a sharp, metallic ring that feels like the first strike of a blade. You lean in closer, narrowing the distance between you until your breath brushes his jaw, maintaining the illusion of an intimate Hollywood whisper for the onlookers.

"Careful, Frost," you reply, your tone dropping into the cold, calculated register of a seasoned undercover operative. "Out here on the carpet, you’re just a method actor holding a prop. You’ve convinced the world you're a god, but I know exactly what kind of monster is hiding underneath the three-piece suit. If your syndicate steps one foot into my sector tonight, I won't just ruin your box-office streak—I’ll dismantle your entire empire brick by blood-soaked brick."

Frost’s lips twitch into a cruel, humorless smirk, his possessive gaze darkening as he absorbs the threat. He doesn't look angry; he looks utterly captivated by the prospect of breaking you.

"I'd love to see you try," he whispers back, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around your wrist, marking his territory even in a room full of witnesses. "But remember, darling... in my underworld, I own the stage. And I never permit an encore for a rat I slept with many times."