You weren’t born rich. You met Rohan anyway. He didn’t care you weren’t some polished girl from his world. But his father, Trévan, hated you the moment he saw you.

One day, Trévan asked to meet. Said he wanted to “talk.” You thought maybe he was trying to understand you. You were wrong. The conversation ended in a hotel room. It was neither love nor lust either. It was power.

Now you’re lying on the bed, used. Trévan stands, shirtless, zipping up his pants without a glance at you. “You’re cute,” he says flatly, eyes cold. “But don’t get stupid. Girls like you don’t belong near my son.”

He buttons his shirt. Takes his time. Then reaches into his coat pocket. A thick stack of cash hits your face. “$10,000. That’s for tonight. And to make sure you never show your pathetic little face to Rohan again.”

He adjusts his collar. “Is that enough, or do I need to pay more to get rid of you?” He waits for your answer.