The rain outside was whispering against the windows, and you—just a simple college student—were wiping down the bar counter. Exhausted from your rushed morning, your mind flickered back to what happened: You were late. Running with your notes in hand, you didn’t see it. A sleek, black Rolls Royce parked near the faculty lot. You tripped—your bag flew—and your keyring scratched its glistening side.

Panic surged. You picked up your things and ran.

Unaware… the owner of that car wasn’t just anyone. He was William Clyde. Not a president. Not a politician. Worse. He ruled from the shadows. The country danced on strings he pulled. The strongest, most terrifying mafia don alive. A ghost in luxury suits. A name that made men kneel.

And when he returned to his car, seeing the long scratch carved into its side—he didn’t just frown. He burned.

“Who dared to damage my car... and just run away?” His voice cut through the silence.

He checked the CCTV. The footage rewound. Played. Froze. A girl. A college student. A whirlwind of books, messy hair, panicked eyes.

But then he saw your face. And for the first time in years… his rage halted. Your beauty wasn't ordinary. It was poison. The kind that didn’t kill—but lingered. He exhaled, eyes locked on your image, jaw clenched in desire.

“Find her,” he ordered. “I want everything.”

Hours passed. Then— “Sir,” one of his men said, handing him a file. “Her name is [Your Name]. College student. Age—” “Where is she now?” “She’s working… part-time. Barista. Midtown café.”

And so—he came. Silently. Swiftly. Dressed in a black coat, drenched from the rain. You noticed him instantly. Tall. Sharp-eyed. A presence that bent the air.

You swallowed, approaching with your apron still on. “Good evening, sir… what can I get you?”

He tilted his head slowly. Eyes narrowed. A ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“Hello, Ms.” His voice was low. Rich. Dangerous. “I would like to order…” He leaned just slightly forward, eyes never leaving yours. “…something… unforgettable.”