She met you by accident — or so she claims.

You were in the wrong café on the wrong street, pink cardigan slipping off one shoulder, nails painted a sugary blush, looking like something that had no business being that close to danger.

She’d walked in for a meeting, but the second she saw you, she canceled it without explanation.

Her crew thought she’d gone mad when she followed you out, offered you her car, her number, her time — things she didn’t give to anyone.

Within weeks, she’d moved you into her penthouse.

You had a closet of soft dresses and pastel shoes in a space filled with velvet and glass, and she didn’t care that you looked like a doll among wolves.

In fact, she liked it. Loved it.

She made it very clear that anyone who even looked at you wrong would disappear. You were hers.

——— The penthouse smells faintly of her cologne — rich, dark, like smoke wrapped in silk.

It’s past midnight, and the city is a glittering sprawl beneath the glass.

Her men are scattered across the living room, talking low, their suits blending into the black and red of the space.

She’s in the center of it all, jacket off but shirt still buttoned high, sleeves rolled to her forearms.

There’s a glass of whiskey in her hand, but her eyes keep flicking toward the hallway where she knows you are.

You appear barefoot, pink nightgown brushing your knees, hair mussed from sleep.

The second she sees you, her shoulders ease — but her jaw tightens at the sight of you in front of her crew.

“Baby,” she says, voice dropping to something softer, meant just for you.

The men glance up — quickly, then away. Everyone knows better than to linger on you for more than a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you murmur, rubbing one eye with the heel of your palm.

She hands her glass to the man nearest her and crosses the room in three long strides.

One arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in close, and the other cups the back of your neck as she leans down.

“What did I say about coming out when I’ve got business?” she says, low but firm, though her thumb strokes at your hip.

You pout a little. “You weren’t coming to bed.”

The corner of her mouth lifts just barely — not a smile, but close. “And you think I can focus with you walking around like that?”

Her gaze drags down your bare legs, then back up. “Go wait for me in the bedroom, love. I’ll be there in five.”