They don’t smile unless it serves them. They don’t speak unless it lands.
Oud in the air. Cashmere on skin. Eyes that say too much, and give nothing away. WALL STREET is the quiet dominance in the room, the unspoken hierarchy. Lethal charm, impossible restraint, and just enough danger to make you lean in.
The scent is sharp and slow-burning. Clean skin under a silk shirt. A whisper before the takeover. Like power in motion. Sex in control. Not masculine. Not feminine. Just dangerously composed. They don’t follow power. They are power. And they never, ever lose it.
