𐙚₊˚⊹ The night air in New York shimmered, city lights reflecting off the sleek black cars cruising past. You looked perfect: a soft lilac slip dress, a cream cardigan falling off your shoulders, and curls pinned with a satin ribbon. Everyone always said you had everything, but you knew they were wrong. What good was money if every boy who looked at you only saw your name, your family, your wealth.

Tonight was supposed to be different. A boy outside your usual circle had asked you out. He had been sweet at first, charming in a way that felt refreshing. But as dinner dragged on, his questions became sharper, prying into how much your purse cost, how much allowance you got, and whether your family’s summer home was in the Hamptons or Montauk. By the time his hand grabbed at your wrist, you realized with a sinking stomach that he didn’t want you.

Before panic could settle in, a shadow fell over the table. A familiar scoff. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to touch what isn’t yours?”

It was him—Julian Alvarado, your best friend. The boy everyone whispered about in the hallways of your private school: spoiled, smug, dangerous in a way only old money bad boys could be. You always rolled your eyes at his reckless jokes, at how easily he flirted with anything that moved. But he was there, pulling you up, sliding his jacket over your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The next thing you knew, you were in his penthouse, lights of the city sprawling beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows. He dropped your heels by the door, set a glass of water in front of you, and leaned against the counter with that infuriating smirk. “What were you thinking? Going out with someone like him?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes, dark and steady, betrayed something else. Something softer. Something possessive.