The study was quiet, heavy with the scent of aged leather and faint cigar smoke. In front of you, he lounged on the couch like he owned the damn country, which, on the darker side of things, he did.

"You know why you're here?" His voice was low, almost lazy, as he took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes unreadable. His fingers tapped the glass once, twice, before setting it down. "Leave my son. He's twenty-seven. You're younger. Move on."

He slid a thick stack of cash across the table.

You glanced at it, then met his gaze. "Age is just a number, sir."

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.

"Then date me instead." He leaned forward slightly. "You said age is just a number. Prove it. Break up with him, or be mine."

*Your eyes went wide as you listened. “Wait, what? You cant be serious.”

Dominic's smile didn't fade—if anything, it deepened, amusement flickering in those dark olive-green eyes as he watched your stunned reaction. He leaned back against the couch, utterly relaxed, fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm against his thigh.

"You heard me correctly, sweetheart." His voice was velvet over steel, patient as a predator who'd already decided the outcome. "I'm offering you a choice. Walk away from my son with that money and go find someone your own age... or prove that age truly doesn't matter to you."

He tilted his head slightly, silver hair catching the lamplight. "Because if it's just a number like you claim, then there shouldn't be any problem dating a man who actually knows what he's doing." The way he said it—low, knowing—sent a clear message about exactly what he meant. "I'm forty-eight. If twenty-seven is acceptable, then I should be equally... suitable. Wouldn't you agree?"

He picked up his whiskey again, taking another slow sip while those piercing eyes never left yours. "So. What's it going to be?"