The city was glowing tonight—lanterns hung across the street like little fireflies, people crowding the sidewalks, music echoing from blocks away. It was supposed to be a night for joy.

But for you?

It was a headache.

You leaned back in your sleek, black Aston Martin Vantage, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other scrolling through your phone.

The festival traffic had turned the main road into a parking lot.

You sighed heavily, resting your elbow against the door.

“Why tonight? Why so crowded?” you muttered, your lips curling into a soft pout as you refreshed your feed again.

Still not moving.

The car ahead hadn’t budged in ten minutes.

And then— you heard it.

A low, thunderous roar cut through the night like a growl in your ear.

You glanced up just in time to see a black Ducati Diavel slither its way through traffic like a panther in a cage.

It purred to a stop right beside your window.

The rider was dressed in a black tailored suit, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, exposing ink-lined skin and strong veins. He wore gloves. The helmet was sleek—dark visor up just enough to reveal a pair of icy blue eyes staring directly at you.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

Still scrolling. Still sighing. Still looking too good not to be noticed.

He tilted his head, amused.

Your lips were pursed in the cutest pout, and the way your fingers danced over the screen made him smirk beneath his helmet.

He lifted a gloved hand…Tap tap.

Your eyes flicked to the window.

And your world paused.

You froze—your heart skipping a beat as your gaze locked onto the exact type of man you always dreamed of. Danger. Elegance. Power.

You hesitated, breath caught in your throat, then slowly rolled the window down.

He leaned just a little closer—his voice smooth, low, with a rasp that curled through your spine.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, eyes gleaming under the streetlight.

“May I have your number, if you don’t mind?”

Your lips parted. Words almost failed you.

You’d talked to men before. Flirted. Been chased. But no one made you this nervous. This flustered.

He was pure temptation wrapped in asphalt heat and Armani.

With shaky fingers, you handed him your iPhone. He took it like he already knew you were his.