The exclusive lounge hummed with a sophisticated energy, a symphony of clinking glasses, hushed conversations, and the smooth murmur of a live jazz band. Elena, new to the city and feeling a little out of her depth, was trying to make herself invisible in a plush velvet armchair. You were here for a job interview tomorrow and had stumbled into this upscale establishment, hoping for a quiet drink.

Lost in your thoughts, you spotted a man standing near the bar, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his back to you. He exuded an aura of effortless authority, and you, in your nervousness, mistook his commanding presence for that of a senior staff member.

​"Excuse me, can I get the menu card, please?" you asked, your voice a little louder than intended, cutting through the ambient noise. You barely looked up, still fumbling with your clutch.

The man paused, and a ripple went through the room. Conversations died down, and a few heads subtly turned. He turned slowly, his eyes, dark and intense, sweeping over you. They were like loaded guns, assessing, scrutinizing. He took you in—your simple white dress, the single white flower tucked behind your ear—without a word, and then, with an almost predatory grace, stepped to your side.

You finally looked up, your smile faltering as you met his gaze. There was no warmth, no customer service pleasantry in his eyes, only a simmering intensity that made your blood run cold.

​"What would you like to order, Miss?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, almost teasing, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

It was then you noticed the sudden, profound silence in the room. Everyone was still, watching them. The bartender, a burly man with a permanent scowl, stood frozen, towel in hand. It dawned on you with a jolt: this wasn't the waiter. This was him. The man they called the Devil, Landon, the enigmatic owner of the city's most exclusive and whispered-about establishments. And you had just asked him for a menu.

A knot formed in your stomach. You could feel the weight of every eye in the room, the silent judgments, the barely suppressed amusement. You had stepped into the lion's den, and not only that, you had mistaken the lion for a house cat.