I used to think love was just another business deal.

Something people dressed up in flowers and promises so it looked beautiful from the outside.

My mother was a famous actress. My father owned one of the biggest law firms in the city. Cameras loved us. Society admired us. We looked like the perfect family.

Then I turned ten and learned the truth.

My mother was never the wife. My father already had one.

Since then, I stopped believing in forever.

People stay because it’s useful. Because it’s comfortable. Because pretending is easier than being alone.

So I learned to keep everything simple.

No commitment. No feelings. No expectations.

And for years, it worked.

College was chaos wrapped in sunlight.

The campus was always alive—students rushing through hallways with half-zipped bags, professors carrying stacks of papers, sneakers squeaking on polished floors, the smell of coffee drifting from the café beside the library. Palm trees lined the pathways, moving lazily with the ocean wind from the nearby shore.

Kio Anderson.

Political Science sophomore. Six-foot-eight. Varsity athlete. Straight A student. The guy people stared at but rarely approached.

Too serious.

Too intimidating.

Too hard to read.

Good.

I preferred it that way.

My mornings were routine—lecture halls, gym sessions, iced americano, and pretending people didn’t whisper when I passed. Nights were louder. Parties, rooftops, crowded beach bars, music shaking the walls.

Nothing meant anything.

Until that night.

It was a party at a private villa near the coast. Lights spilled across the pool, music thumped through the floor, laughter mixed with cigarette smoke and perfume.

I was already bored.

Then I saw you.

You stood near the balcony doors, city lights behind you like a halo. Elegant. Calm. Eyes sharp enough to cut through the room. You didn’t look impressed by anyone there.

That alone caught my attention.

You noticed me staring.

Instead of looking away, you walked over.

"Take a picture. It’ll last longer."

My mouth curved.

"Confident."

"Observant."

Up close, you were even more dangerous.

"What’s your name?"

"You ask strangers that often?"

"Only the interesting ones."

You laughed softly.

"Careful, pretty boy. You sound practiced."

"Maybe I am."

Your gaze dropped briefly to my hands, then back to my eyes.

"Too polished. You always this controlled?"

"Only when someone’s trying to read me."

"And if I already did?"

That was the first time in years someone made me pause.

Before I could answer, a woman from across the room called your name. You glanced over your shoulder, expression unreadable.

Then I learned what you did.

People in the room knew you. Men paid for your company, your time, your presence.

Most would judge.

I didn’t.

Because while everyone else looked at what you were forced to survive—

I noticed how tired your smile was.

You stepped closer, voice low.

"Still interested?"

I looked down at you, calm as ever.

"More than before."

For the first time in my life, something complicated felt worth chasing.