**Chapter 1**
**Ferdinand's Point of View**
I parked my Range Rover in my mother's garage, the engine still warm, growling like a warning in the silence of the house. The journey had been long, exhausting, yet, as always, my first thought was of her. Béthanie. My only anchor, my constant in a world I had learned to despise.
Thirty years. Thirty years of conquests, power, solitude, and wounds. I wasn't just a billionaire, feared in all my ventures around the world; I carried the icy mask of an untouchable, cruel, and relentless man. Women fell at my feet, fascinated by my charisma and athletic body, but behind the playboy veneer, there were only scars. Scars I refused to open again. Orphaned of a father since I was five, I had learned to survive through coldness and control. Love… family… all of it was weakness and pain. And I refused to fall into that trap again.
I am American, and I live in Los Angeles.
When I opened the living room door, I saw her. Béthanie, my mother. Always impeccable, radiant despite the years, with that soft, comforting scent that always lingered around her. She placed her hands on my cheeks and pulled me close. Her embrace made me shiver. Despite all my defenses, despite my frozen heart, a part of me still trembled at her touch.
— My son… you're finally home… she whispered, eyes shining.
— Yes… I replied, curt and brief, unable to open my heart as she wished.
She stepped back slightly, reading my closed-off features, my clenched jaw. As always, she saw beyond the mask, beyond my silences. She knew that behind the reputation of a cruel playboy was a broken boy, lost in his wounds.
— Ferdinand… she said gently but firmly, it's time you take responsibility. It's time you marry, think about starting a family… about giving me grandchildren.
A shiver of anger and tension ran through me. Her words were dagger strikes I refused to accept. No. Never. The past had already broken me. I wanted no love, no attachments, no children. I clenched my fists and inhaled deeply to contain the surge of rage rising inside me.
— Mom… I said, my voice icy, sharp. I will not marry. I do not want children. Ever again.
I saw her eyes darken, but she said nothing. She knew I spoke with sincerity. With pain. With the wall of ice I had imposed around myself for years.
— You… she murmured, hesitant.
— Very well… I cut her off, my hard gaze locked on hers. I will not change my mind. I refuse.
She exhaled slowly, trying to dissipate the tension filling the room. Then, with a fragile smile, she pressed a kiss to my cheek.
— Come have dinner… I made your favorite dish, she whispered.
I said nothing, letting my silence speak for me. She knew my silences. She knew my wounds. She knew that behind my refusal was the boy who once laughed, broken by the past, still hiding behind the facade of an unforgiving man.
— You're wrong… I whispered so she wouldn't hear me push too hard. I will never marry. I will not have a child.
She looked up, smiling nonetheless, and pressed another kiss to my cheek.
— You'll see… one day, Anton, you'll understand.
I frowned, staring at her coldly. Today, I would never yield. But somewhere, deep inside, an old echo, a memory of light, still whispered in my heart…
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**Béthanie's Point of View**
I held him longer than necessary, unable to hold back my tears. My son… Anton, my only child, my world. Since he was five, since that tragic accident that took his father and shattered my life, I had lived only for him. And today, I saw him, standing before me, cold, hard, frozen… a wall nothing seemed able to break.
I am Béthanie Carryton, 45 years old, beautiful despite my age. I work in interior design and am very renowned. I am naturally understanding, honest, and possess a beautiful heart—and I intend never to change.
My son had changed since that diabolical woman who destroyed him five years ago. Anton, once joyful, respectful, and understanding, had become this cruel playboy, feared in all his ventures, a heart of steel untouched by anything. And yet… despite everything, he was still my son, my blood, my broken angel.
— Ferdinand… I murmured, pressing my hands to his shoulders. I know you refuse to open yourself to happiness, but I will continue to hope for you. Even if you don't see it, I pray every day for an angel to knock at your door and melt the ice surrounding you.
He frowned, looking at me as if I were crazy. But I could read his eyes. There were still sparks, fragments of the child he had been, buried beneath the pain and anger.
— Mom… I… he whispered, hesitant.
I smiled, holding back my tears. My Anton. My boy. Even broken, even cold, he fascinated me. He fascinated me because he was brilliant, dangerous, yet still deeply human.
— You know I love you, Anton. Even if you refuse happiness, even if you think all is lost… I believe in you. And I know that one day, you will understand.
He looked away, clenching his jaw. I knew he was fighting his own demons, refusing to yield to emotion, having built an armor against the world. Yet I felt the tension in his body, the inner struggle, like a fire he would not admit.
— Come have dinner, I made your favorite dish, I repeated softly, hoping to lighten the atmosphere.
He sighed, but finally sat at the table. His features still closed, his gaze still hard, but he was there, alive, in the flesh. And for me, that was already a victory.
I set the plates before him, my hands trembling with emotion. I recalled every moment of his childhood, every laugh that filled this house, every fatherly embrace we had lost too soon. And even if today everything seemed dark, I knew there was still hope. My son would eventually find happiness. I could feel it. I knew it.
— You'll see, Anton… I whispered again, caressing his hand tenderly. Even if you refuse to listen to me now, one day… you will understand.
He looked up at me, hard as steel, yet something in his eyes betrayed a shiver of nostalgia, of pain, perhaps even of desire for comfort. My heart clenched, but I did not show my tears. My role was to protect him, to believe in him, and to continue to hope.
I knew the road would be long. His wounds were deep; his playboy heart was a facade. But I would continue to pray, to love, to hope, until the day a miracle—or a person—finally freed him from his inner chains.
And as he ate in silence, I knew that this moment, as simple as it was, was a fragile ray of light in the darkness that had invaded our lives. I knew that sooner or later, my
son would find his way to happiness… and perhaps, to love, despite himself.