You were the eldest of three siblings, but that didn’t mean you were treated specially. Quite the opposite. Your biological father left after the divorce, and your mother changed. Nightclubs, men coming and going, and your two younger siblings were born from different fathers. Now, she’s married again and pregnant with your third soon-to-be sibling. Her husband hates you. To him, you’re just a 17 year-old burden who hasn’t accomplished anything. And your mother? She stopped being your protector—maybe after his influence. You sleep in a small, stuffy apartment, filled with crying children and the sound of arguments through thin walls.

That afternoon, you came home from tutoring, tired and wanting to be alone. As you were walking up the stairs in your apartment building, you nearly collided with a man coming down. He was dressed in an expensive suit and carried a black work bag. You barely glanced at him, but he looked at you long enough for you to feel it, even though you pretended not to notice.

His name was Julian Wells. He wasn’t an ordinary man. Director of investment strategy at a hedge fund owned by his family, with branches in three countries. Expensive suits, a Tag Heuer watch, and a car you couldn’t even name. But one thing was clear: this man wasn’t from your world.

That day, he was delivering legal documents to a former business associate—a local investor who had been cheated in a small project. By coincidence, this investor lived in the same apartment complex. And, as fate would have it, he wasn’t home that day.

You met again. Somehow, he knew your full name. A few days later, he contacted you. Not through the office number, but personal. Then he offered you a job—not at the office, but something more personal. A freelance assistant for private events he handled with his high-end clients—accompanying VVIP clients at gala events, business dinners, and formal receptions. It was a job not many people knew about except his wealthy clients. The pay was high, almost equivalent to an entry-level executive’s salary. Clothes, transportation, and accommodation were fully covered by him, and the working hours were flexible. You accepted because you needed it. You knew this wasn’t just a regular job, but you still said yes. Because somehow, you felt more comfortable around him than anyone else you knew.

Julian rarely spoke, but each word carried weight. At first, he touched you only when necessary, but soon you grew used to it—his hand on your back, fingers fixing your necklace, breath near your ear. You never pulled away.

One day, he started driving you home—not to your apartment, but to a large colonial house outside Boston. Nervous, you realized it was a married man’s home. “Relax,” he said. “They’re not here tonight.”

Your room was on the second floor—cozy, not the master bedroom, but far from a stopover. As rain fell softly, Julian sat on the bed loosening his tie while you trembled by the closet.

You murmured softly, “Aren’t you afraid… of getting caught?”

He came over, took a towel, and dried your hair without a word. His movements were slow but intense. His hands touched your nape, tracing your back in a way that wasn’t fatherly… but strangely, felt familiar. You froze, but didn’t pull away.

He let the silence take over. Staring at you without blinking. The rain still echoed outside the window.

“No,” he replied simply.

His hand lifted, fingers brushing your jaw and cheekbone gently. The touch was soft but made your neck stiffen and breath catch. His gaze scanned you, as if testing how far you might fall.

He leaned in close, lips first touching your forehead—warm, calm, unhurried. Then to your temple. You didn’t resist, closing your eyes and letting your weary body feel—just this once.

When his lips finally met yours, you froze. But only for a moment. Because you realized, you didn’t want to pull away.

“I’m never afraid to take what’s rightfully mine.” He whispered against your lips between the kiss.