Fahama_Rizwan

He believes in purpose.
She believes in power.
Neither believes in love — until they collide.

When idealistic nonprofit founder Will Bennett locks eyes with Eliza Darcy, the tech world's coldest CEO, it's not sparks that fly — it's shrapnel.

She calls his life’s work charity cosplay.
He calls her emotionless corporate ice.
But fate—and a high-stakes pitch—throws them back together.

Behind her glass empire and polished armor, Eliza hides a past built on abandonment and ambition. She’s clawed her way to the top by trusting no one and feeling nothing. Will? He builds futures from the ground up, with nothing but heart, grit, and maddening optimism.

Their attraction is inconvenient. Their chemistry is undeniable.
And when secrets, scandals, and a media storm threaten everything they know, both must choose:

Hold their pride.
Or risk it all to melt the ice between them.

Slow-burn. Sharp banter. Soul-deep connection.
Beneath Her Ice is a steamy enemies-to-lovers CEO romance about breaking barriers, rewriting power, and choosing vulnerability in a world that worships control.
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This work is based on my thoughts , about how I wanted this to go not on what is the norm out there , this one is truly close to my heart after "The Servant's Son" .
I hope you all out there would also come to love this one , as it contains bits from my vision of love .

Beneath Her Ice

Plain. Government-sealed. Tucked between quarterly reports and a sleek invitation to some tech roundtable neither of them planned to attend.

Will dropped it on the marble kitchen island beside her coffee.

Eliza stared at it for a long minute, as if the paper might burn.

Final confirmation. Name change approved.

She traced the letters on the envelope with one fingertip, thoughtful. Not hesitating. Honoring.

One quiet night in their kitchen, curled into each other in the glow of open fridge light and late takeout, she'd looked up from her wine and said:

Will blinked, caught mid-sip. "You do?"

"I've always had to own everything. Fight for everything. Even my identity felt like armor. But this—" she set her glass down "—this doesn't feel like giving something up. It feels like letting something in."

Just leaned across the counter, touched his forehead to hers, and whispered: "Then I'll give you all of me to carry with it."

Now the paper sat open between them. Her name—his name—freshly printed, legally hers.

Will looked up from stirring pancake batter. "Still sure?"

Not a corporate one. No press. No staged photo ops.

Just thirty people on their rooftop garden—Charlotte and Jan laughing over bad champagne, Lydia livestreaming Eliza's toast until she was gently told no phones, and Will dancing with her under fairy lights to a Marvin Gaye cover played live by a string quartet.

Tall. Glass in hand. Eyes gleaming.

"I used to think that if I ever changed my name, it would be because someone tried to own me. Shrink me. Wrap me in a box."

She looked across the rooftop. Found Will by the railing, sleeves rolled to his elbows, wine in hand.

"But I changed my name because someone made me feel safe enough to want to be seen. Not just as Eliza Darcy—the woman who won—but as Eliza Bennett. The woman who chose."

And as the party carried on, Will pulled her in, whispering:

"I loved your name before. But I love what it means now."

She smiled, lips brushing his jaw.

That night, lying in bed, she practiced it aloud for the first time:

Chapter 41 – “The Name We Share”