Dashylle's villa was always alive—almost breathing on its own. Lush plants lined every corner, climbing and curling beside the full-length glass windows that framed the living room. A wide sliding door opened toward the garden, letting in the morning light that softened the villa's cold elegance. The interior, a seamless blend of classy and sophisticated whites, reflected one thing perfectly: he was obsessively clean.
He had no maids. Not even one. Only bodyguards stationed around the property—silent, unmoving, vigilant. He trusted no one in his personal space, especially not to cook for him.
Except the Crimson Veil Clan.
They were the only ones he allowed close, the only people he could stomach relying on.
But for everything else, Dashylle handled his own life.
He knew how to cook.
He knew how to wash dishes.
He knew how to deal with his own mess.
