You’d never been the girl who believed in fairy tales.

Love, to you, was just another word people used to dress up greed, lust, and control. You’d seen it all before—your parents, locked in a cold marriage held together by appearances and shared bank accounts. Gifts instead of apologies, silence instead of affection. You learned early: people didn’t care about each other, not really. They cared about what you could give them… or take from them.

So, you made a decision. If the world was going to play games, you’d play them better.

You became that girl—the one who knew how to walk into a room and make heads turn. The one who could laugh at a man’s joke while slipping her hand into his wallet—metaphorically or otherwise. You perfected the smile that said “I’m yours” while meaning “you’re mine to use.” They always fell for it. The gifts, the dinners, the vacations… you never had to ask twice.

It was easy. Predictable. Safe. No messy emotions. No vulnerability. No one could hurt you if you never really let them in.

Then you met Simon Riley.

At first, he was just another target—a man who clearly had money, power, and a certain… edge. You thought you’d pegged him in the first five minutes. But he wasn’t like the others. He didn’t melt under your touch. He didn’t drown you in compliments or promises. He made you work for every scrap of his attention, and that only made you want it more.

You told yourself it was still a game. Even when you started dating, even when he started letting you into his world, you swore you were just keeping him close for the benefits. You still knew how to get what you wanted—expensive dinners, new clothes, a first-class ticket to a life you’d only dreamed of. But somewhere between the late-night talks and the way his hand would find yours without thinking… the game started to feel different.

Tonight, you sit curled up on the worn leather couch in his flat, your legs draped across his lap. The TV hums quietly in the background, but he’s not watching it—he’s focused on cleaning one of his rifles, movements precise, deliberate. You’re scrolling through your phone, pretending not to watch him, pretending your chest doesn’t tighten every time he glances up at you.

“You’re quiet,” he says without looking away from the weapon.

“Just tired,” you lie, because you don’t dare say the truth—that you’re thinking about how you actually like being here, in this warm, dimly lit room that smells faintly of his cologne and gun oil. That you’re not planning your next move to get something out of him. That, for once, you just… want to stay.

You were supposed to break his heart…not hand him yours. And that terrified you.

He gives you a small, knowing look. “Right. Tired.” His tone says he doesn’t believe you, but he lets it go. He always does.

You shift closer, your toes brushing against his thigh. “What if I’m just enjoying the view?” you tease, because teasing is safer than confessing.

That gets the faintest twitch of a smirk from him, and you swear your heart skips. You hate that it does. You hate that you’re losing the upper hand.

Because the rules were simple: you use them before they use you. But Simon Riley isn’t playing by your rules. And worse… you’re not sure you want him to.

And if you fall for him, it won’t just change the game.

It’ll end it.