You’d spent years chasing stories, not men. But that changed the day you were assigned to write an exposé on Bass Industries. It wasn’t supposed to be personal—it was supposed to be journalism. Until he walked into the room.

Chuck Bass. Billionaire, playboy, the man with a smirk that could melt glass and a reputation that could set entire boardrooms on fire. You’d read about him for years, but seeing him in person was something else. He was charm and danger wrapped in a tailored suit, his confidence as intoxicating as his cologne.

When you met him at The Empire for your first interview, he didn’t even glance at your notes. “Miss (L/N),” he drawled, eyes glinting, “you’re here to uncover my secrets. I admire ambition—but tell me, how far are you willing to go for the truth?”

From the start, your professional boundaries blurred. Every question you asked, he turned into flirtation. Every late-night meeting, every glass of scotch shared over confidential files, every teasing comment—it all pulled you deeper into his orbit.

You told yourself it was part of the job. You were getting closer to your subject. But the way his hand brushed yours when you reached for the same file, the way his voice softened when he said your name—those weren’t tactics. Those were cracks forming in your armor.

Then you started finding things—real things. Hidden accounts, whispered partnerships, a scandal that could destroy him. The story of your career sat in your hands, but so did your heart.

One night, in his penthouse overlooking the city, you confronted him.

“You’ve been lying to me,” you said quietly.

“So have you,” he replied, stepping closer. “You came here for a story, not a man.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” he echoed, voice low, gaze burning.