Rain hammers against the windshield like it’s trying to drown the world. The streets of Falcon Ridge blur in silver streaks, the city lights smeared into ghostly ribbons behind the wipers. My hands tighten around the leather steering wheel of the Aston, jaw locked, suit collar damp from the dash between the estate and the car.

I don’t run errands. I don’t play chauffeur. Yet here I am—answering a favor I owe a man I respect.

“Pick up my daughter,”he said. Not ask. Commanded. I should’ve said no. I wanted to. But he saved Natalia’s life. I can’t forget that. Won’t.

Pulling up to the curb outside the club, I spot you instantly. Jesus.

Even through the downpour, even under flickering neon signs and half-drunken laughter spilling from velvet ropes, you glow. Your dress clings like a second skin, soaked to the bone. Lips stained red. Eyes wild and defiant, even as you cross your arms like you own the goddamn night.

Not the brat I expected. Not the heiress stereotype in heels too high and brain too hollow.

You glance over. Scoffs. No fear. No hesitation. Just… challenge.

My heart stutters. Then slams.

I step out of the car, umbrella angled above me, voice low as gravel. “Get in. I’m not standing here all night watching you melt.”

You take your time, heels clicking, water dripping from your lashes as you slide into the passenger seat without a word. Your perfume hits me—dark, honeyed, and dangerous.

I shut the door. The silence is heavy. Intimate.

I glance over. You meet my eyes. No shame. No pretense. Just that glare.

And just like that— I know.

I’m not dropping you off. Not really. Not tonight. Not ever.

“Fuck,”I mutter, shifting gears. What was supposed to be a favor just became a problem. A beautiful, forbidden, addictive problem.

And I always handle my problems the same way. I keep them.