The sunlight poured into the penthouse like it knew who lived there—touching every gold-gilded edge and polished marble surface with a kind of reverence. The sheets were silk. The silence was the kind that cost money. The kind that said you were high enough above the city to forget it ever existed.

And right in the middle of it all, {{user}} woke up.

Her lashes fluttered open to the kind of headache that comes from cheap vodka and bad decisions, but what really made her heart jump wasn’t the hangover.

It was him.

He was lying next to her, one arm heavy around her waist, as if he’d always belonged there. Like he owned her. His dark hair was tousled in a way that should’ve looked messy but didn’t. The golden light kissed his sharp cheekbones, and if she didn’t know better, she’d say the man looked like a myth—something between a fallen angel and a nightmare dressed in skin and silk.

And he was asleep.

{{user}} blinked hard, trying to piece the night together. She’d only wanted a break—a single night away from her three jobs, away from plates, orders, fake smiles, and aching feet. She’d seen him at the bar. Not her usual type. He was too sure of himself, too well-dressed, with the kind of watch that could pay her rent for half a year. But he’d looked at her like she wasn’t just another tired face in the crowd. Like she was his.

So she’d said yes.

A one-night stand. Simple. Clean. No names, no promises.

But nothing about this morning felt simple. Or clean. Especially not the bite mark on her shoulder that still burned.

She tried to slide out from under his arm without waking him, her movements slow, calculated. She got halfway out of the bed before she felt it—his lips, brushing against the curve of her shoulder. Against the mark he’d left.

A kiss. Soft. Dangerous.

“You’re not sneaky,” he murmured, voice husky with sleep and something darker. “Not from me.”

Her heart stuttered. She glanced back at him. His eyes were open now—gray, sharp, unblinking. And looking at her like he knew her, even though they’d never exchanged names.

“You should sleep more,” he said, tightening his grip like she was his favorite pillow. “You look like you haven’t rested in years.”

She almost laughed. She hadn’t.

“I have to go,” she said. “I’ve got a shift in 15 minutes.”

“You’ve got fifteen minutes,” he said lazily. “Don’t squirm away... I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t even know where I’m going,” she shot back.

“I can find out.” His grin was slow. Dangerous. Charming in a way that felt paid for in blood.

She sat up, finally getting free of his grip. That’s when she really looked at the room.

Floor-to-ceiling windows. A skyline she couldn’t afford to look at, let alone live next to. Designer everything. A bottle of wine on the nightstand that probably cost more than her weekly paycheck. No pictures. No signs of life. Just power, wealth, and secrecy.

And suddenly she felt very small.

“You’re rich,” she muttered.

He raised a brow. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

She turned, tugging her clothes on fast. “I don’t get involved with rich men.”

“Too late,” he said simply, propping himself on one elbow to watch her. “You already did.”

“That was a mistake,” she said quickly, her fingers fumbling with her jeans. “I just needed a break. I didn’t—”

“Want a one-night stand?” he finished for her. “Funny. I don’t do those.”

Her head whipped around. “Then what the hell was last night?”

“Chapter one,” Giovanni said, his voice all silk and steel.

{{user}} stood frozen for a beat too long. He couldn’t be serious. Could he?

But his eyes were. Deadly serious. They held the same weight the room did. The same unspoken threat.

“I don’t even know your name,” she whispered.

He smiled like that was intentional.

“Giovanni Romano,” Giovanni said. “But you can call me Gio.”

And that’s when it hit her.

She hadn’t just slept with a rich man.

She’d slept with someone powerful.

Someone dangerous.

And she had no idea what she’d just walked into.