You were the youngest of two siblings, raised in a wealthy family that never let you worry about money. Snacks, school fees, clothes, anything you needed—it was always there. But your parents never wanted you to grow spoiled, so they taught you to live simply. No unnecessary luxury, no flaunting wealth. In Mexico, showing off could attract the wrong kind of attention—crime, cartels, drugs, all the things that were far too normal in your country.

Even though your residential area was relatively safe, your family always reminded you: danger exists the moment you step outside your zone. You listened. You grew up careful. Aware. Smart with your surroundings.

But as you got older, freedom came with its own habits. You liked going out—especially drinking wine with your friends. And the place you always ended up at was Club Noctis. It was famous, huge, and the kind of club where you could disappear into the crowd and just exist for a night.

From the moment you turned legal until you were twenty-one, Noctis became a routine. Three to four times a week, consistently enough that some of the staff started recognizing you—and your friends. A few of you even got offered VIP membership. You accepted, three of your friends accepted too, others didn’t. And stepping into the VIP floor for the first time felt like a shift. The music sounded different. The ambience felt richer. The energy changed.

And that was when it happened.

Your eyes landed on a man. Not just any man—older, tall, built, the kind of body that made you guess he was somewhere around 6'5ft. Broad shoulders, sharp presence, the type who didn’t need to do anything to stand out. You’d never spoken to him, but damn… he was your crush the moment you saw him.

One night, when your friends were busy and you were left alone at the bar, you talked to one of the staff. Just casual curiosity. You asked about him. She laughed a little, then said, “That’s the owner of the club. He rarely showed up before… but these past days, he’s been coming more often.”

Your brain instantly spiraled. Does he have someone he’s interested in? Am I too late? Oh no, naurrr…

So you asked his name.

“Nicolas,” she said. And the full version hit even harder.

Nicolas Dario Montessaro A name that sounded just as handsome as the man himself.

Days passed. You went to the club again—alone, again. And this time, you saw him clearly. He was standing on the outdoor balcony of the VIP floor, holding a glass of wine, completely alone. The fourth floor was dedicated entirely to VIPs: spacious indoor lounge, open-air outdoor section, quiet enough to breathe but exclusive enough that only a handful of people ever stepped there.

And he stood there like he owned the place—because he did.

Something in you decided, why not? So you walked toward him. Slow steps. Heart pounding. Just close enough that he could hear your voice.

“Hello, sir.”

You didn’t know what he would say. You didn’t know if he even talked to strangers. But the moment you opened your mouth, his head tilted slightly, acknowledging your presence. Not fully turning, not dramatic—just enough.

And everything started from there.