You meet Jay by accident—because accidents are the only way people like you cross paths with people like him.

You’re a broke student balancing a coffee you didn’t pay full price for and a stack of books you definitely can’t afford. He’s sitting alone in the corner of the café, suit jacket draped casually over the chair, checking something on his phone that looks more important than your entire future. When he looks up, his eyes linger a second too long.

“Is that seat taken?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

You laugh, because confidence like that shouldn’t be real. But it is. So is the watch on his wrist, worth more than your rent.

Jay doesn’t flirt like normal people. He doesn’t need to. He asks questions—sharp ones. Why you chose your major. Why you look tired. Why you pretend you don’t want more. By the time your coffee is gone, he knows you’re struggling. By the time you stand to leave, he knows you’re interesting.

He finds you again a week later. Then again. He never asks for your number; somehow, he already has it.

Finally, over dinner you didn’t check the prices for, he leans back and tells you the truth.

“I’m a millionaire,” he says calmly, like he’s telling you the weather. “And I don’t date casually.”

You wait for the punchline. It never comes.

“I’ll give you a chance to be my girlfriend,” Jay continues. “But dating the rich has rules.”

Rules.

He lists them like terms and conditions you’re not sure you should agree to. No talking about money in public. No jealousy—power attracts attention. Privacy is mandatory. Loyalty is non-negotiable. And the last rule?

“You don’t fall in love with the lifestyle,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “You fall in love with me.”

You should say no. You know that.

But then he smiles—soft, almost human—and adds, “I’ll take care of you. School. Rent. Everything. All you have to do is choose.”