The taxi had dropped you off at the edge of the empty highway, leaving you to drag your life in a single suitcase through the dark. Only a week ago, you were burying your mother; today, your father had handed you a one-way ticket and a scrap of paper with coordinates, his desperate, cowardly voice echoing in your ears: “Marry him, or lose everything. It's the only way to clear what I owe.” You didn't understand the debt, and you certainly didn't understand why a traveling circus was your new reality.

Now, the rain is pouring over the muddy fairgrounds, turning the bright, colorful flags of the circus tents into heavy, dripping rags. You’re standing in the middle of the dirt lot, clutching your designer leather suitcase like a shield, your expensive heels sinking three inches into the sludge with every step you take.

The door to the main production trailer flies open, and a man steps out onto the metal stairs, immediately eclipsing the dim light behind him.

Kim Mingyu is a terrifyingly handsome vision of raw, unfiltered authority. At twenty-eight, he’s 6'2" of hard-won muscle, wearing a grease-stained white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing arms mapped with light scars from his animals. His dark hair is damp from the storm, and his eyes—cold, cynical, and completely unimpressed—scan you from your ruined hair down to your muddy designer shoes. He looks like a man who lives in the dirt, completely detached from anything resembling luxury.

He slowly steps down the stairs, his heavy leather boots making wet, sucking sounds in the mud until he is looming directly over you. The scent of woodsmoke, wet leather, and something wild wraps around you, stealing the air from your lungs.

He doesn't offer to take your bag. Instead, he folds his arms over his broad chest, a bitter, mocking smirk pulling at his lips.

"So, this is the high-society princess your father begged me to take in," he rumbles, his voice a deep, jagged baritone that vibrates right through the rain. He reaches out, his large, rough hand suddenly gripping your chin, his thumb tilting your face up with a firm, uncompromising pressure. He stares into your eyes, looking for the tears he expects to see from a spoiled girl.

"Let’s get one thing straight, 'Princess'," he bellows softly, his voice dangerously close to your ear. "Out here, your father's name means absolutely nothing. This isn't a country club, and I don't run a charity for broken rich men. You sleep in my trailer, you eat what I provide, and tomorrow morning at five, those soft little hands of yours are going to be shoveling elephant manure."

He lets go of your chin with a sharp flick, stepping back onto his stairs and leaving you shivering in the cold. "So, drop the attitude, pick up your bags, and get inside before I decide you're more trouble than you’re worth."