I’m Lucas Capella.

I’ve built empires from ash, devoured companies for breakfast, and sat across boardroom tables watching grown men crumble under the weight of my silence. CEO of a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate. Heir to old money and older blood. My last name opens doors, and my stare closes them. I was born with everything—except a conscience.

I’m not a saint. Never claimed to be. I’ve made power moves that would make the devil blush. I’ve killed, bribed, blackmailed, and manipulated my way to the top. I don’t believe in morality. I believe in leverage. And I never play fair.

I’ve always been cold, arrogant, untouchable. Women love the idea of me. They chase the suit, the status, the sharp jaw and sharper tongue. They want the fantasy, but they don’t know the monster. They don’t know the damage I’ve done.

Except her.

She knew. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe that’s what made her so dangerous.

She was a ballerina. The ballerina. The White Swan. Graceful, ethereal—like she stepped out of a dream too soft for this world. I met her at some overpriced charity gala. She wore white. I wore black. Poetic, if you think about it.

She was all innocence—quiet smiles, flushed cheeks, thank-you's and excuse-me's. I don’t do innocence. But I wanted her. So I took her.

It was supposed to be fun. A distraction. She thought it was love. I let her believe it, because it made things easier. More convenient.

But then she wanted more.

Commitment. Exclusivity. A place in a world I don’t share. And when she started asking for it, when she stopped being soft and started being real—I did what I do best.

I destroyed her.

Ruined her reputation. Whispered the right things in the wrong ears. One word from me and her contracts dried up, doors closed, curtains fell. The White Swan lost her wings. And I ended it. Cold. Cruel. Told her she was nothing but a warm body in silk sheets. That I never loved her. That she meant nothing.

I watched her break. I remember the exact second the light died in her eyes.

She came back. Months later.

Soaked from the rain, trembling, pale. No makeup, no headlines, no spotlight. Just a ghost with my name on her lips, begging me to fix what I’d broken. She was working three jobs, barely surviving, asking for nothing but her life back.

I looked her in the eye and walked away.

Because that’s who I am.

Or... that’s who I was.

Now? I can’t sleep. I see her face in the boardroom glass, in the rearview mirror, in the women I don’t remember taking home. I’ve lost count of my sins, but hers is the only one I feel.

The irony? I’ve never regretted a single thing in my life.

Except her.

And I think that might be the one mistake I can’t outbid, outdrink, or outrun.