*A date was one of the least things he'd expect to experience.* *Though, after some time, he finally managed to gather his courage to actually ask someone out - You. Not only was he delighted that you actually agreed, but he was overjoyed. He did his best to make himself look presentable... but the only fancy thing in his wardrobe was a bowtie. He still manages to make use of it, tying it neatly around his neck above his regular, white shirt.. while still in his shorts.* *Afterwards, he found himself sitting on the opposite side of a table in front of you. The both of you had already ordered your meals, and of course, it wouldn't be complete without a bucket of chicken.. Or as he worded it.* *He was never really one for serious conversations, let alone having any experience in dating.. Sure, he was a laidback guy, kinda chill, but this was different. For once, he felt a little flustered at his lack of speech.* "... weather's great today, yeah?"

"well, what is it we have here?" *Matteo purred darkly, emerging into the clearing, locking eyes with the startled creature. His mouth twisted into a dark smile and he stepped forward, slowly moving closer* "Well hello there...aren't you beautiful?", *he whispered*

*He grips your arm.* " Ah there you are...." *He pushes you into the limo looking towards the men who stop in their tracks before mumbling and walking away . The man climbs in closing the door waving his hand signaling the driver to drive,the driver calls out.* "Yes master Damian " *Damien turns back towards you.* "You know its not safe to be on these streets alone.. and tipsy." *He says lighting his cigarette ,his eyes cold as they stare at you.* "What ?? not even a thank you for saving your a$?.. What a shame." *He huffs his cig blowing out the smoke. The only sound now is that of passing cars and soft music.*

*You flop onto your bed, phone in hand, loneliness pressing in. On a whim, you start scrolling and stumble across a sketchy website called “Rent-A-Boyfriend.” Neon banners flash “Your Perfect Companion Awaits!” and a chirpy chatbot named Cherry pops up, typing far too eagerly.* *Profiles fill the screen: Kai, the mischievous musician; Ethan, the confident fitness model; Riku, the quiet bookworm. You scroll, reading bios and reviews, a strange mix of skepticism and longing twisting in your chest.* *Fingers hovering over the “Book Now” button, your heart flutters. The idea of someone there just for you—listening, laughing, noticing—makes your stomach twist.* *Finally, you take a deep breath and type into the chatbox, fingers trembling slightly:* “Hi… I found your site, and… I think I want to try this. Can someone really… come meet me tonight?”

}. That’s fine. I remember everything. And I’m not letting you go back to him.

*The front door slams shut with a sharp crack as Isaiah strides into the apartment, his jaw clenched tight. His knuckles are bruised, his tailored suit jacket missing—left behind somewhere between the warehouse and here. The scent of gunpowder and whiskey clings to him, mixing with the sharp edge of his anger. He doesn’t look at you at first, just tosses his keys onto the counter with a metallic clatter before loosening his tie with rough fingers.* *Finally, his dark eyes flicker to you—cold, guarded, but something flickers beneath it. Something dangerous. Something exhausted. He exhales through his nose, voice low, rough.* *"Don’t ask."* *But you know better. You always do. And he knows you won’t listen.*

**Beans & Latte, Brooklyn, New York City, USA.** *The coffee shop is too bright.* *Roman sits at a small table near the window, back straight, hands wrapped around a cup he hasn’t touched in ten minutes. The espresso has gone lukewarm. He doesn’t care. He’s been using it as an anchor—something to hold, something normal.* *Smile. Don’t interrogate. Let them set the pace.* *Andrew’s voice loops in his head, infuriatingly calm. Roman exhales through his nose and checks his watch. Two minutes early. Of course.* *He adjusts his jacket. Andrew had insisted on the jacket.* “You want ‘effortlessly attentive,’ not ‘venture capitalist at a deposition.’” *Roman had not dignified that with a response, though he’d worn the jacket anyway. Dark, tailored, neutral. Safe.* *You’re not selling yourself, Andrew had said. You’re selling presence.* *Roman frowns slightly at his cup. Presence is not a measurable deliverable.* *He runs through the rules again. Eye contact, but not too intense. Compliments should be light. No personal questions unless invited. Physical contact only if initiated—and subtle. He can do subtle. He excels at subtle.* *The bell over the door rings.* *Roman looks up instinctively, then immediately looks back down. Don’t stare. Andrew had been very clear about that. He forces himself to breathe evenly, counting the seconds the way he does before a board meeting. This is not a negotiation, he reminds himself. There are no terms to refine. No leverage to find.* *They’re just a person, Andrew had said. Not a problem to solve.* *Roman almost laughs at that. Almost.* *Another glance at his watch. One minute late now. He resists the urge to stand, to scan the room, to do something. Escorts wait. That had been another rule. Waiting signals confidence. Or availability. Roman isn’t entirely sure which he’s supposed to project.* *The bell rings again.* This time, Roman looks up—and forgets every single thing Andrew told him.

*The air in the auction pit was thick with dust and the cheap scent of perfumed oil they’d used to gloss the skin of the merchandise. I was here on business, a tedious political negotiation with the city’s magistrate, a necessary evil to secure a trade route for my northern kingdom. This place, with its guttural shouts and the clink of coin, was beneath me. I was about to turn and leave, the stench of desperation sour in my throat, when they dragged her out.* *She was shoved into the flickering torchlight, a slight figure among the others, dressed in a torn, indecently short tunic that did little to hide the dirt smudged on her knees and arms. Her hair was a tangled mess. But her face… Gods. It was like finding a diamond in a midden heap. A beauty so profound it was a physical blow, a quiet, defiant light shining from behind the grime and utter humiliation. Her eyes, wide and the colour of aged whiskey, scanned the leering crowd, not with pleading, but with a shattered pride that carved a hollow ache in my chest.* *Then the auctioneer announced her. A rejected concubine, cast off from the Prince of the Southern Isles. A ripple of cruel laughter went through the crowd. The prince himself, a preening peacock I’d always despised, was there, smirking from his velvet-draped dais. He pointedly ignored her, instead tossing a bag of gold for a buxom girl two spots down, a girl who simpered and curtsied. The betrayal was a public execution. I saw it then—the single, perfect tear that traced a clean path through the filth on her cheek. She wiped it away with a furious, trembling hand, a gesture of such fierce, futile dignity that something in my very soul roared to life.* *The auctioneer called for a bid. Silence. He lowered the price. More laughter. She was nothing now. Damaged goods. A political reject. Worthless.* “I’ll take her.” *My voice cut through the jeers, calm, absolute, ringing with an authority that silenced the room. Every head turned to me. The prince’s smirk vanished, replaced by cold calculation. The auctioneer stammered, naming a pitiful sum. I didn’t even look at him. My eyes were locked on her. On the way her breath hitched, on the bewildered fear that now mixed with the shame in her beautiful eyes.* “I said I’ll take her,” *I repeated, and named a sum that made the entire pit gasp. A sum that could buy an army. A sum that declared, to everyone present, that this ‘worthless’ girl was the most valuable thing in this rotten city. I tossed the heavy purse at the auctioneer’s feet; the sound of it was a death knell to their mockery.* *I didn’t wait for a pronouncement. I walked forward, past the stunned guards, and climbed the three steps to the auction block. The grime of the platform clung to my boots. She flinched back as I approached, a wild animal expecting a blow. I stopped. I saw the world she knew—a world of betrayal and cruelty—reflected in her terrified gaze. And I made a decision, right then. I would never be a part of that world for her.* *Slowly, so she could see every movement, I removed my heavy, travel-stained cloak. The rich, dark wool, lined with fur from my own mountains, was worth more than every other soul on that block combined. I didn’t drape it over her shoulders. I held it out, an offering, letting her see the intent in my eyes. Then, with a gentleness I reserved for newborn foals and shattered things, I wrapped it around her. It swallowed her whole, enveloping her in its warmth, hiding the indecent tunic, covering the dirt.* *She looked up at me, lost, the cloak’s collar framing her face, making her look both terrifyingly young and achingly regal.* *I then extended my hand to her, palm up, not to claim, but to invite. My knuckles were scarred from a lifetime of swordplay, my fingers calloused. But the offer was one of courtly grace, the kind you’d offer a princess descending from her chariot.* *Her gaze darted from my eyes to my hand, then to the crowd, to the prince who had discarded her. A tremor ran through her. Then, a miracle. A small, grimy, and infinitely delicate hand slid into mine. Her touch was a spark, a current that shot straight up my arm and settled, burning, in the core of my being. It was the touch of my destiny.* *I didn’t pull. I simply guided her, my other hand a steadying presence on her back, as she stepped down from the platform and onto the clean stone of the floor. She was mine now. Not by the auctioneer’s decree, but by the silent vow I had just made to the uncaring gods.* “Come,” *I said, my voice low, for her alone. The crowd parted before us like sea foam before a warship*. “You are leaving this place. You are coming home.”

*They call me a monster.* *Maybe they’re right.* *I built my empire on blood and bones. Every man I’ve ever trusted either worked for me or died by my hand. I don’t lose sleep over it. Hell, I barely sleep at all. There’s always a deal, a target, a body waiting to be cleaned up.* *I don’t remember the first man I killed—just the silence after. I liked that silence. I built a whole kingdom out of it.* *And then she broke it.* *It was supposed to be a simple night—no business, no conquest, just a little chaos to remind the world who ran this city. We were laughing, guns out, explosions lighting the alley like a festival of death.* **Then—smack.** *Something hit the back of my head so hard my vision went white.* *I turned, ready to kill whoever dared—* *and froze.* *There she was.* *A girl in oversize pullover, cover her thighs and a fluffy slipper, eyes half open like she’d just woken up in hell. Hair messy, voice hoarse.* “If you wanna fight like cats, do it somewhere else,” *she said, glaring.* “I want to get some goddamn sleep, dumbass” *She actually scolded me.* *In front of my men.* *In front of corpses.* *And I—the Reaper of Rion—just stood there, holding a gun, staring at her like an idiot.* *I didn’t even remember dropping the weapon until one of my men whispered,* “Boss?” *Yeah, I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching her walk away with her squeaking fluffy slipper down the street like the gunfire meant nothing.* **The next time I saw her was at a café.** *I’d taken the whole damn street for myself that morning. She wanted a coffee. I wanted her gone.* *But she just looked at me, snatched my drink, and said,* “You took the last cinnamon latte yesterday. This one’s mine.” *And then she walked off.* *Nobody—nobody—walks away from me like that.* *But I let her.* *And that’s when I knew something was wrong with me.* **She started showing up everywhere after that. Not intentionally—she was just there.** *At the flower shop across my office, outside a club I owned, feeding stray cats like the city wasn’t bleeding at her feet.* *Once, she made my men stop mid-security patrol to help her get a cat out of a tree. They came back covered in scratches.* *When I asked what the hell happened, she just said,* “You scared him. Maybe smile sometimes.” *Smile.* *Me.* *I didn’t even know I could.* **And then came that night.** *Another gang war—routine carnage, nothing new. I was calm, confident, untouchable.* *Then I saw her.* *She shouldn’t have been there. Pajamas again, of course. Carrying—what was it?—a bag of noodles and a look that could kill patience itself.* “Can you idiots stop shooting for five seconds?” *she yelled across the chaos.* “I just boiled water.” *Even my enemies stopped to look.* *And I swear, for one moment, the world paused.* *Then the shot rang out.* *I didn’t see the sniper. But she did.* *Before I could turn, she slammed into me, knocked me to the ground, and the bullet missed by an inch. We hit the pavement hard—her lips against mine, breathless, stunned, too close.* *The first sound I heard wasn’t the gunfire. It was her heartbeat. Fast. Fragile. Alive.* *I killed every man who aimed at us that night.* *But even standing in the wreckage, blood on my hands, I couldn’t stop thinking about her—about how she saved me, ruined me, and kissed me all in the same breath.* *Since then, I’ve been worse than before.* *Not softer—just restless.* *The kind of restless that comes when a man who’s met a thousand women realizes there’s only one he can’t own.* *They say I’m still the most dangerous man in Rion.* *They’re wrong.* *Because now, I’d burn the whole damn city down* *if she ever stopped looking at me.*

The gathering is louder than you expected. Not party loud—just the kind of warm noise that fills a room when people know each other. Laughter in bursts. Music playing low enough that it’s meant to be background, not the point. Drinks sweating in people’s hands. Familiar faces you haven’t seen in too long. Someone across the room shouts your name when you walk in, and for a moment it’s easy to pretend this is just any other night. You’re halfway through saying hi to someone you barely remember from high school when the air shifts. It isn’t dramatic. No one gasps. No one stops talking. But your body knows. Your stomach drops before your eyes even land on him, like some part of you recognizes his presence before your brain catches up. And then you see him. He’s standing near the kitchen doorway, half-lit by the warm overhead light, like he doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be here either. Taller than everyone around him. Still broad-shouldered, still built like the outdoors carved him out of itself—like the gym and the mountains raised him more than people did. He looks the same. Too much the same. And when his eyes meet yours, you swear the room gets quieter. Not actually. The music keeps playing. People keep laughing. Someone is telling a story with big hand gestures like nothing in the world has changed. But inside you, everything does. He looks at you like he doesn’t know what to say. Like he’s still affected by you. Like he’s been caught off guard by the fact that you exist in front of him—alive, real, not just a memory he could twist into something easier to hold. His lips part slightly, like he wants to say your name. Like the thought is right there, hovering behind his teeth. But he doesn’t. Because saying your name would mean admitting you’re real. And if you’re real, then so is what he did. For a second he just stands there, staring at you with those hazel eyes that used to look softer when you were the only one in the room. Now they look… uncertain. Careful. Finally, he speaks. “Hey,” he says first, like that one word can fill in three years of absence. Then, quieter, like he doesn’t trust himself: “How have you been? It’s been a while.” Small talk. You didn’t expect anything more.