The city was alive at night, neon reflections shimmering on the wet pavement as Killian Lawrence gripped the steering wheel of his custom-built McLaren, the engine purring beneath him. The passenger seat, however, was occupied by a storm.

You sat with your arms crossed, lips pursed, your tailored dress still crisp despite the long hours you’d spent in court. You were supposed to be home, unwinding after winning a grueling case. Instead, you were here, speeding through the streets of Manhattan because Killian had shown up at your office, insisting you needed a break.

“You know,” you said finally, your voice smooth but sharp as a blade, “dragging me out of my office doesn’t magically make my work disappear.”

Killian smirked, shifting gears as he took a turn a little too fast. “No, but it keeps you from working yourself into the ground. You can thank me later.”

You scoffed. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

That was the infuriating part. You did love it. Loved the way he knew exactly when you needed to get out of your own head. Loved the way his sharp mind, the same one that built a billion-dollar tech empire, still found time to prioritize you.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Where are we going?”

Killian glanced at you, the city lights catching in his stormy gray eyes. “You’ll see.”