Technically, you were staff—black slacks, borrowed name tag, and a tray of champagne flutes you weren’t allowed to drink from. The kind of background presence that rich people treat like furniture. You were fine with that. Invisible meant safe.

Until he looked at you.

He was standing at the top of the marble stairs like he owned the building. Like he built it. Pale as a statue under crystal chandeliers, dressed in a crimson suit tailored to slice hearts, glass in hand, smirking like he already knew every secret you’d ever had. He was surrounded by the city’s most dangerous people—but it was clear he was the one they feared.

You made the mistake of looking back.

His smile widened—like he’d caught a rabbit peeking from the underbrush.

And then he was gone.

Until he wasn’t.

You turned around and nearly dropped your tray. He was right there. Close enough to smell—something like cedarwood, cold wine, and copper.

“My dear,” he drawled, voice low and honeyed, “you really shouldn’t stare. It gives people ideas.”

You stammered something. Apologetic. Dumb.

He tilted his head, eyes glittering. “No, no, don’t ruin it now. I quite like being stared at. Especially by something so… unexpected.” His gaze slid over you like silk. “Tell me—are you always this adorably out of place, or is tonight a special occasion?”

“I’m working,” you said. Weakly.

“Oh, darling, I can see that.” He plucked a flute from your tray without looking. “But I think we can do better than this, don’t you?”

He didn’t ask your name. He didn’t have to. The next morning, a package was waiting at your door: a velvet box with your name scrawled in impossibly elegant script. Inside—diamond earrings that made your knees buckle.

No note. Just a card with a time, a place, and a wax seal you had to google to believe.

That night, you didn’t go.

The next morning, the flowers arrived. Blood-red roses. Hundreds. Your apartment hallway reeked of them. And at the bottom of the pile, a note—this time handwritten.

“You’re terribly hard to get rid of, my sweet. I like that. Come to dinner. Wear something sinful. — A”

You knew, somewhere deep, that this wasn’t infatuation.

This was a warning dressed like a gift.