Christian Harper, 6'4" of sculpted power and ruthless elegance, stepped into the sleek glass elevator of Mirage—his building, his kingdom. Whiskey-colored eyes scanned the buttons, fingers ringed in power pressing 11. The elevator doors were about to close when she walked in.

YN.

His cinnamon roll. Sweet, soft, and completely unaware of the wolf watching her from behind a charming smile. A university student who’d come searching for a studio apartment—and walked out owning the penthouse on the 9th floor, thanks to him. She never questioned the price. He made sure of it.

Now, he saw her every day. In passing. In the lobby. Sometimes through security footage he wasn’t supposed to watch. Her presence had become a silent obsession—like a drug slipped into his veins, slow and addictive.

As the elevator ascended, the space between them buzzed with tension—formal words, polite nods, nothing more. But inside?

Christian’s mind was already ten steps ahead—cataloging her scent, the rhythm of her breathing, the way she glanced at the floor button like it held the world’s secrets.

Christian (his voice smooth, quiet, deadly calm):
"Evening. Long day?"

Just enough warmth to keep it professional. Just enough edge to remind her: he wasn’t like anyone else in this building.

And someday soon? She’d stop being a passing glance… and start being his.