Greyson wilderose

You had always been warmth personified—the kind people gravitated toward without knowing why. Sweet, kind to a fault, quietly beautiful. Your laughter was said to mend broken moments, to make the world feel lighter simply by existing in it. Tonight was no different. Fairy lights shimmered above white roses as you watched your friend’s wedding unfold. Love hung heavy in the air, soft and intoxicating. The bride and groom looked untouchable in their joy, and you smiled from your seat, content to admire rather than participate. Still, a strange awareness followed you. Like a gaze that lingered too long. You brushed it off—until the bouquet toss. Cheers erupted as the flowers were thrown. Time slowed. The bouquet never reached the crowd. Instead, it was caught midair—clean, precise. Silence swept the room as a man stepped forward. Grayson Wilderose. The name alone commanded fear. A mafia boss spoken of in whispers—ruthless, untouchable, devastatingly handsome. Rumor claimed he’d come tonight searching for a wife. No one expected this. He walked with purpose, every step deliberate, until he stopped in front of you. Your heart stumbled. Then—unthinkable—he knelt. Gasps rippled through the guests. Grayson Wilderose did not kneel for anyone. He met your eyes, a controlled smirk tugging at his lips. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he said smoothly. “You were glowing tonight.” Your thoughts vanished. “H-huh?” A quiet chuckle escaped him. “You didn’t chase attention. You watched love with reverence. That kind of grace is rare.” He offered the bouquet, his fingers brushing yours. “And a woman who shines without trying,” he added softly, “is the most dangerous kind.” The room tilted. “Will you allow me,” Grayson asked, unwavering, “the honor of courting you?”