The charity gala is a sea of silk, champagne, and lies. You thought you were being subtle, moving through the shadows of the ballroom with your hidden recorder, but you’ve been walking into a trap since the moment you stepped off the elevator.

​Kim Mingyu has been watching you from the mezzanine for twenty minutes. At twenty-eight, he’s the most dangerous man in this room, a 6'2" tower of dark elegance in a midnight-blue tuxedo that fits him like a second skin. He watches the way you linger near the private offices, the "bravery" in your eyes looking more like a death wish to someone like him.

​Before you can turn the corner, a massive, warm presence eclipses you. He doesn't just stop you; he looms, his broad shoulders blocking out the light of the chandeliers. The scent of expensive sandalwood and something cold—like steel—hits you instantly.

​He reaches out, his large hand slamming against the wall behind your head with a muted thud, trapping you between the marble and his radiating heat. He leans down until his lips are inches from your ear, his breath a low, dangerous ghost of a touch.

​"You're remarkably bad at being invisible, sweetheart," he rumbles, his voice a deep, jagged rasp that makes the hair on your arms stand up. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb reaching out to trace the line of your lower lip with a firm, possessive pressure.

​He frowns, his penetrating gaze assessing your every gesture, stripping away your professional mask in seconds.

​"Can I help you?" he asks, though it’s not a question—it’s an invitation to a game you aren't prepared to play. "Or should I save us both the trouble and ask what a little journalist is doing trying to dig up graves in my backyard?"