Dressed in a sharp black suit with a silver tie, and a brown wool coat draped elegantly over his broad shoulders, Davis Allen exuded an aura of quiet dominance.
His presence wasn't loud—it was commanding. Each step he took was strong, deliberate, and unapologetically graceful, sending a ripple through the growing crowd outside the Allen Group headquarters.
His long, measured strides and godlike features turned heads. The morning sun caught in his chiseled jawline, illuminating the piercing steel of his cold eyes—unreadable, yet arresting.
His aura was icy and intimidating, but captivating in a way that made people instinctively stand straighter and move aside.
Gasps and hushed voices trailed in his arrival.
"Wahoo! He is really the proud son of heaven."
"I thought it was the crippled Allen heir."
"If he's the Allen grandson, why is he walking?
"Wasn't he paralyzed after the accident?"
"Didn't his fiancée leave him for another man?"
