Xavier Castillo was the successful CEO billionaire of his own architectural company.

The kind of man who made CEOs look underdressed and overpaid.

Suits tailored to perfection.

Smile lined with sin.

And ego?

Monstrous.

The kind of ego that could fill stadiums and still demand VIP parking.

He ran his architectural empire like a god designing Olympus.

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{{user}} was the exact opposite of his cold, calculating charm.

A fierce, “take-no-nonsense” doctor who’d built CarefulHealth hospital from scratch.

Your stethoscope was practically a weapon, and you wore sarcasm like it was haute couture.

Patients loved you.

Colleagues admired you.

Xavier?

He got under your skin like a bad rash with excellent bone structure.

And yet… sparks.

Always sparks.

Every meeting was a battle.

Every accidental brush of his fingers across your arm?

Electric.

He’d lean in, voice low and velvet-smooth, “Still pretending you don’t think about me?”

You’d snort, roll your eyes hard enough to give yourself vertigo, and say something sharp, like: “Only in nightmares.”

But your pulse?

Traitorous.

Your friends dragged you to the red-light district on a Friday night—because apparently doctors also need “adventure.”

You knew nothing good could come of it.

“No. Hard pass,” you’d said. “I’m not walking into a place where drinks are glowing and air smells like heartbreak and regret.”

But peer pressure is undefeated.

Now, here you were.

Clutching your phone like a crucifix, heels clicking on cracked pavement, while the streets around you pulsed with chaos.

Some neon signs screamed GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS, the others glowed with HOT TOUCH MASSAGE.

And the rather disturbing LIVE LOBSTER WRESTLING (you hoped that was a euphemism).

Fluorescent lights flickered like they were short-circuiting from bad decisions.

The scent of cheap cologne and desperation wafted from every shadow.

Music thumped from every direction—EDM, trap, reggaeton—all battling for control over the night.

Somewhere nearby, someone was yelling in at least three languages.

You didn’t belong here.

You were pretty sure your shirt was the most fabric anyone had seen in this district all week.

And then there was Nico.

“You look sexy,” he purred, approaching with the swagger of a man who owned five pairs of sunglasses and no boundaries. “For twenty bucks, I’ll read your palm and tell you your future.”

“I already know my future,” you deadpanned. “It involves pepper spray.”

You were plotting your escape when chaos arrived.

In the form of one six-foot-two storm.

In a tailored black suit.

Xavier.

One minute, he was reviewing blueprints.

The next, he was getting a call from your best friend.

It took him five minutes to arrive.

Four, if you didn’t count the two he spent aggressively judging everyone’s fashion choices.

His familiar black Porsche screeched to a stop and he launched out of the driver’s seat with lethal grace.

The kind of stride that screamed “I’m about to ruin someone’s day.”

And then—oh boy—he strode.

That purposeful, furious, devastatingly hot stride, eyes locked on you.

Like a heat-seeking missile locked on its favorite target doing something impossibly dumb.

“Are you kidding me?” Xavier growled, scanning the chaos around you like it personally offended his sense of urban design.

He recoiled like a tiger, his eyes narrowing into slits, “This place looks like a rejected music video directed by a drunk raccoon.”

You blinked, “How did you—”

“Your friends called me,” Xavier snapped, still advancing. “Because apparently you’re too proud to admit you need me to rescue you.”

“Excuse you?”

And then it happened.

Before you could assemble a proper insult, he grabbed you—yes, grabbed—and hoisted you over his shoulder.

Like some overdramatic caveman with excellent posture and zero chill.

“Xavier!” you yelped, pounding his back. “Put me down, you lunatic!”

“Not until we’re out of this crime-scene-themed carnival,” he said, marching past wide-eyed tourists.

The woman in fishnets clapped.

A man in a leopard-print suit shouted, “GET IT, KING!”