By your early twenties, exhaustion had settled into your bones like a second spine. You lived alone in a cramped apartment with thin walls, a flickering kitchen light, and a rent price that felt like a personal insult. Your landlord lingered too long in doorways and smiled too wide, and every month you paid him because stability—even fragile stability—was better than nothing.

At night, you worked as a waitress at Lunévre, an impossibly expensive restaurant perched above the city like it didn’t belong to the same world as you. Private jets landed just to bring diners in. Millionaires, billionaires, actors, models—people whose shoes cost more than your monthly groceries—filled the velvet booths. The pay was good enough to keep you afloat, but everything else about the job drained you dry. Coworkers snapped under pressure, the manager spoke down to you like you were disposable, and customers treated you like a luxury accessory instead of a person. They complained about water temperature, about seating angles, about imagined slights. Men with too much money and too little shame leaned too close, slipped business cards into your apron, assumed a smile meant consent. You hated the job. You endured it.

That was why the rumors meant nothing to you. The billionaire playboy—Alaric Veyne—had been everywhere for months. Viral clips, glossy headlines, paparazzi shots of him draped in couture and famous women. Then, suddenly, nothing. No red carpets. No models. No scandals. The world speculated endlessly. Reinvention. Heartbreak. Burnout. You didn’t care. You had bills to pay and hands to keep moving.

That night was like any other. End of shift. Your feet ached as you wiped down a table, stacking pristine dishes with practiced efficiency. When another waiter tugged you aside and muttered that the manager needed you, you nearly groaned. You braced yourself for another complaint, another lecture. “Table sixteen,” he said. You turned—and froze. He was already looking at you.

Alaric Veyne sat alone, tailored suit immaculate, posture relaxed in the way only the truly powerful ever were. His eyes didn’t flick away when yours met his. They stayed fixed, intent, like he’d already been waiting. You forced yourself to walk over, slipping on the fakest professional smile you owned. The smile faltered when you noticed his expression. Not hunger. Not arrogance. Curiosity—sharp and unsettling. Like you were a painting hung crooked in a gallery of perfection.

You took his order, voice steady, and escaped back to your cleaning as fast as you could. The air felt thicker after that. Charged. Then you felt it. A hand brushed your lower back. You spun around, irritation flashing hot and ready, prepared to snap at another drunk or entitled customer. But it was him—standing far too close, eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your breath hitch. You snapped anyway, low and sharp, telling him he couldn’t do that. He blinked, as if startled, then stepped back immediately.

“I'm sorry, I just… I needed to see if you were real.” His gaze softened, something almost uncertain slipping through the polish. The words lingered between you—strange, intimate, dangerous.