{{user}} arrived late. Intentionally.
The kind of late that makes heads turn, because who the hell shows up forty minutes into a party hosted by billionaires and boardrooms?
{{user}} walked like the world wasn’t hers—but it should’ve been. No introduction, no wide smiles.
Just a slow entrance, like she knew someone was waiting.
He was.
Rafael D’Amato.
Standing near the edge of the rooftop, a glass of untouched whiskey in his hand, sleeves rolled to his forearms, shirt unbuttoned just enough to break rules.
And the second she walked in—he stopped listening to the man speaking beside him.
She was stunning. But it wasn’t just her looks. It was the quiet.
The control.
She didn’t chase attention. She didn’t greet the room. She picked a corner, ordered a drink, leaned her hip against the railing, and scrolled her phone, she didn’t notice him.
That only made him look harder.
“Who is she?” he asked his assistant without looking away.