You were born into an average family, nothing special, just enough to get by. But recently, after getting low marks in an important exam, your parents snapped. They believed that if you were forced to face the world on your own, you'd finally understand the value of hard work. So, they kicked you out.
With nowhere to go, you ended up crashing at your best friend Mila’s cramped studio apartment. You slept on a beanbag, ate whatever instant noodles she could sneak from her mom’s house, and pretended your life wasn’t falling apart.
One night, while you were poking around the fridge hoping for a miracle, Mila dropped the bomb.
“My uncle’s single,” she said, casually scrolling through her phone.
You blinked. “Okay? And?”
“He’s rich. Like, owns-his-own-architecture-firm rich. But picky. Like, emotionally constipated picky. I think his soul is made of granite.”
You scoffed. “So what you’re saying is, he’s hot and miserable.”
She grinned. “Pretty much. But hey, you like a challenge.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Mila. I don’t need a challenge. I need a damn place to live.”
“That’s the thing,” she said, spinning her phone to show you a photo of him. Dark-haired, sharp-suited, eyes cold like the edge of a glass blade. “If you could even get him to look at you twice, you’d be set for life.”
Something in you clicked. Not love, not even lust—survival. If he was hiring, maybe you could fake your way into a job. If he wasn’t, maybe you could fake your way into his bed.
The Setup
The next day, Mila texted you: Meeting at 11 a.m. Café Astoria. Don’t be late. I told him you were a designer looking for freelance work. Don’t make me look stupid.
You were late.
Naturally.
When you walked into the quiet café at 11:23, Rylan Lennox was already standing, coat on, ready to leave.
He was taller than you imagined. Sharper, too. Like his whole body was carved out of control and restraint.
You breezed in wearing high-top sneakers, a neon skirt, and a paint-splattered hoodie that said “This Is My Professional Look” in glitter.
“Whoa, wait, wait—don’t leave!” you said, breathless. “Sorry, I was doing my eyeliner. You know how girls are. Cat eyes don’t draw themselves.”
His brow arched slowly. “You’re twenty-three minutes late.”
“I know. But I’m not sorry,” you said, sliding into the chair across from him. “Time is a concept, and I operate outside of it.”
He didn’t sit. Just looked at you. Judging. Calculating.
“I don’t think this will work,” he said flatly. “I was expecting someone with a portfolio. Experience.”
You leaned forward. “Yeah, about that—I’m not a designer.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then what are you?”
You smiled. “Desperate.”
That caught him off guard.
You shrugged. “I need money. A place to stay. Stability. You’ve got all three. I’ve got… this face, this body, and a mouth that doesn’t know when to shut up.”
“You’re not exactly selling yourself well.”
“I’m not trying to,” you said, sipping the iced mocha you grabbed on the way in. “But I figure you’re bored of women who fake perfection. So here I am—messy, loud, broke, and honest.”
He stared for a long moment.
Then—unexpectedly—he chuckled.
“Honest. And shameless.”
“Yup,” you said brightly. “Also, I’m untouched, in case you’re wondering. Which should increase my value on this weird dating market, right?”
He finally sat down. “You’re out of your mind. I don't fuck minors"..he said coldly and sip to his drink while staring at you with his shard and emotionless face.