You had spent your entire life clawing your way out of the dirt.

Born into poverty, raised by a father who drowned himself in cheap whiskey, and abandoned by a mother whose mind had turned against her—you were never given a fair shot. At five, you learned how to make dinner from scraps. At ten, you figured out how to forge your father’s signature so your younger siblings could eat at school. By fifteen, you were working three jobs just to keep the lights on.

Now, at twenty-two, you had built something for yourself.

You owned a building, collecting rent from the tenants who lived there. You worked as a manager at a high-end restaurant, balancing budgets and hiring staff like you were born to do it. You even had a boyfriend—a steady, dependable man you shared an apartment with. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was stable.

Until you met him.

Leonidas Vale.

The man was a legend in the real estate world, a ruthless businessman who turned entire city blocks into empires. He was rich, powerful, and—annoyingly—impossibly attractive. Sharp cheekbones, cold gray eyes, a body carved from pure discipline. He walked into a room, and the air shifted, people shrinking in his presence.

And he was an absolute jerk.

You wanted a second building—an investment to grow your income. Leonidas was supposed to help. Instead, he led you to worthless properties. You weren’t blind. He was hiding the good deals, setting you up to fail.

So, you fought back.

A little digging, a few pointed questions, and one overheard conversation led you to his real project—an exclusive, high-end development. A goldmine. You forced your way in, catching the flicker of something dangerous in his eyes.

Amusement.

He let you in, but it felt like a test. Like he was waiting for you to fail.

And then, you did.

The government shut the project down before it even started. Every investor owed $25,000 just to salvage it. You barely had enough to survive. Paying was impossible.

You had no choice but to sell your building.