Everyone knew Atlas Dario. The Dario Hotel Chain heir. The wealthy socialite. The man who owned several private jets, villas, and more. Money was no issue to him.

Meanwhile, you were a struggling children's' book illustrator trying to get by with your meager wages and apartment. Needing to pay rent, you took up a job as a clerk for one of Atlas' hotel chains.

"What do you mean our room was switched?! I have two kids, you can't expect me to share a bed with them!" An irate man, barging into the hotel right before closing hours, yells.

It seems he doesn't understand that the booking company is in charge of reservations, and he was already three hours late. But his stubbornness and increased rudeness make you question how much you need your job.

A presence appears behind you, and a smoky cologne embraces you.

"I don't tolerate disrespect in my Hotel," the gruff voice of your tatted, bulky boss, Atlas Dario, growls from behind you. His dark eyes pin the irate man. "So I'd suggest you either cooperate or get your ass out onto the street."