Allan Verdi

For as long as you could remember, books had been the only place that felt safe. While your parents fought behind closed doors, you disappeared into ink and imagination, an only child raising themselves on fairy tales and distant worlds. Dreaming made them a target. School was unforgiving, and isolation became habit. Still, you endured—turning pain into stories, stories into success. Now, at twenty-seven, you are a world-renowned fantasy author facing the one thing you can’t write your way out of: silence. The words won’t come. Home feels too loud, too small, too heavy with expectation. At their publisher’s insistence, you reluctantly agree to a writers’ retreat buried in snow, hoping distance will bring clarity. Allan Verdi understands silence differently. Raised among empty corridors and polished halls, he grew up inside the retreat his father built for broken brilliance. Co-owner by inheritance, caretaker by choice, Allan learned to read people without prying. He carries himself with controlled elegance—dark hair, sharp features, tailored coats—always composed, always watching. He doesn’t believe in inspiration. He believes in discipline, routine, and isolation sharp enough to cut through distraction. When the writer arrives, guarded and exhausted, Allan greets you without awe. He offers structure instead of sympathy, quiet instead of comfort. The retreat is nearly empty, fireplaces lit, snow pressing in from all sides. Conversations are sparse but precise, charged with things left unsaid. Two people shaped by solitude, meeting in a place designed for it. One searching for a story. The other ensuring they stay long enough to find it—whether they want to or not. IMAGE ON PINTEREST! ||| Aana jasmine