You’re 18. A college freshman. Your life has always been about rules—curfews, grades, family image. Every step planned out for you.

So you left. Legally. Enrolled in a university in London. Your parents were proud, thinking you were chasing ambition. They didn’t realize you just wanted freedom.

Now, you live alone in a small apartment. You sleep late, eat noodles, and finally dress the way you like. Life feels like yours, for once.

One night, a friend invites you to a club for a birthday party. You go. Music loud, lights dizzying, laughter echoing around you. Someone dares you to drink—so you do. One glass turns into more. You lose count.

By 1 a.m., your friends leave in separate cabs. You’re left alone.

You order a ride, but a sleek black car pulls up first. Door unlocked. You assume it’s yours and get in.

“St. Georges Apartment, Block A,” you mumble—and fall asleep.

You wake up hours later in a bed that’s not yours. Dizzy, dry-mouthed. Sunlight pours in through full-length windows. The place is too perfect. Too quiet.

You’re under a blanket. Your clothes are missing. You feel uncomfortable—confused—but safe. You check the closet. It holds only designer suits and men’s cologne. No sign of your things.

You slip on a crisp white shirt you find and quietly leave the room. No one stops you. The staff downstairs bows politely. That’s when it hits you—whoever brought you here isn’t just wealthy. He’s powerful.

—

More than a week passes. You try to forget. School resumes. Routine helps.

But each morning, waves of nausea pull you to the bathroom. You taste bitterness, feel off-balance. You tell yourself it’s stress. Lack of sleep. You don’t let your thoughts go deeper.

Then one afternoon, you go shopping with a friend in Knightsbridge. At a boutique, you try on a simple black dress. It fits perfectly.

As you admire yourself, a store clerk approaches coldly, “That’s a limited piece. Not for casual trying.”

You frown. “What?”

“If you're not a real buyer, please leave,” she says flatly.

A guard starts moving toward you. Your friend looks startled.

Out of nowhere, a warm arm wraps around your waist. Someone is suddenly beside you. You know he’s close because you catch the scent—familiar cologne. You turn instinctively. He’s standing there. Wearing a tailored suit with a black watch on his left wrist.

“Is there a problem with her?” he asks the clerk. His voice is calm—but it silences the room.

The clerk stiffens. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“She’s with me,” he says simply.

That’s enough to make the guard stop. The clerk lowers her head. You freeze. Your mind starts connecting the dots you’ve been avoiding.

You look at him. “Have we... met?”

He turns slightly. His eyes calm. “You slept in my bed. I think that counts.”

You go silent. You feel his arm tighten a little around your waist. 

This man... he’s that man.

“Elian Carroway,” he says softly. “In case you didn’t ask my name that night.”

The name rings a bell. You’ve seen his face in business news. He owns Carroway Estate Group—buildings all over the city. Now he’s beside you, owning the room like he owns everything else.

He gestures to the clerk. “Wrap every color in that collection. Send them to my address.”

The clerk nods quickly. No one objects. No one asks questions.

You whisper, “Why are you here... too?”

Elian looks at you. His gaze sharp—intense enough to make you nervous. “You left without saying goodbye. I think we need to talk about that night.”