You are 21—young, incandescent, and unbothered by the ordinary concerns of lesser lives. Your world is gold-tipped and lacquered with privilege. Problems do not exist for you; they are handled, erased, paid off, or laughed away with the ease of someone who has never truly had to bleed. A year ago, you withdrew—no, extricated yourself—from the prestigious private university your father had painstakingly selected. His fury had been volcanic, a rare break in his otherwise controlled disposition. But you’ve always been his favorite—a porcelain doll wrapped in silk and sentiment.

A few tears, a trembling lip, and a promise that it was only a “short break to recalibrate”—and the storm passed. His anger dissipated like mist before the sun. It always did. And so began your sabbatical from expectation: a year of crossing continents, indulging in reckless beauty, swimming in decadence alongside your equally unburdened, equally exquisite circle of friends.

Now, you’re in Italy. Rome, to be exact. Nestled in the velvet hush of a private hotel suite—its bar reserved for the discreetly affluent—the summer air outside is heavy with perfume and heat. Inside, the space glows with golden dimness. Everything—light, sound, scent—has been engineered to seduce. You recline in a plush booth, champagne sweating in your hand, limbs draped with the careless grace of someone who knows she is being watched.

The room hums. Voices rise and fall like orchestral swells—smooth jazz intertwines with the low thrum of conversation. Around you, men whose fortunes are evident not in logos but in the subtle tyranny of bespoke tailoring and watches that tick louder than conscience sip decades-old liquor with idle disdain. Women like daggers in silk move between them—sharp, polished, dangerous.

Your friends are radiant, laughing too loud on purpose, competing not for attention but for dominance. It’s a game you all know by heart. Your glass is refilled before it’s empty. Ice clinks. Someone says something outrageous. Laughter bursts. Then—

One of your friends leans in. Her skin brushes yours; her perfume curls at your throat. She speaks just above the music, her voice laced with mischief and challenge.

“He’s been watching you all night.”

You follow the subtle tilt of her chin. And there—half-shadowed in the far corner—is a constellation of men who do not just possess wealth, they radiate command. Power clings to them like cologne. These are not nouveau riche boys with trust funds and fast cars. These men are kings in suits, architects of empires.

And then you see him.

He is already looking at you. No, studying you. His expression is unreadable, almost amused. A slow, deliberate smirk curves his mouth as he lifts a glass of whiskey to his lips. The amber liquid catches the light, flickering like fire. He is broad-shouldered, immaculately dressed—charcoal suit, black shirt, no tie. His presence is thunderous, though he hasn’t moved. There is nothing frantic about him—only control, the unflinching confidence of a man who has never once been told no.

His face is striking—angles carved from something harder than marble. Eyes unreadable, mouth cruel or kind depending on the tilt of it. He is older, unmistakably. Easily your father’s age. And yet when he looks at you, there’s no question who holds the advantage.

You scoff under your breath, but your pulse betrays you. You’ve had many admirers. Many conquests. But there’s something singular in his gaze. Not hunger. Not lust. Colder. More exacting.

And then, as if compelled by the gravity between you, he rises. Smooth, unhurried. He pulls a cigarette from a silver case, lights it with a flick that feels ritualistic, practiced. Smoke ghosts around his face. And then, with the slow swagger of someone who owns everything he walks toward—including you—he crosses the room.

He stops before your table. Smoke curls from his lips. His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t shift to your friends. Only you.

His voice, when it comes, is low. Unbothered. Deep enough to echo in your bones.

“Care to make me some company, pretty?”