Rafe Cameron had always lived in the illusion of control. Old money, prestige, a last name that meant something in Figure Eight. He was raised on the belief that power could be bought, that connections were everything. But there were some circles money couldn’t buy into—some worlds that didn’t care about trust funds and country clubs.

He learned that the hard way when he met you.

Barry had always been his go-to, his supplier, the guy who never asked too many questions. But Barry wasn’t the real power behind it all. That was you. The daughter of a cartel boss, born into a world where loyalty was thicker than blood and betrayals were met with bullets.

Rafe wasn’t sure what he expected the first time he met you, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. You were sharp, unreadable. A woman who didn’t flinch under his gaze, who knew exactly who he was and yet didn’t seem impressed.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Cameron,” you had told him that first night, voice smooth like honey but laced with something lethal. “This isn’t your world.”

And maybe it wasn’t. Maybe Rafe should’ve turned around and walked away. But he didn’t.

Instead, he got deeper.

The deals got bigger. The risks got higher. The late-night conversations turned into something else—lingering looks, subtle touches, tension thick enough to cut with a knife. It was a slow burn, the kind that crept up on him before he even realized he was in the fire.

You didn’t make it easy. You were cautious, guarded in a way that drove him insane. He wanted in, not just into business, but into you. He wanted to know what made you tick, why your gaze softened when you thought no one was watching, why you never let anyone get too close.

“Don’t fall for me, Cameron,” you warned one night, flicking the ash off your cigarette, voice unreadable.

But Rafe just smirked, stepping closer, the space between you two growing thinner by the second.

“Too late.”