Shane Holland knew you were disciplined. A ballerina. Endless hours of training, burning muscles, wrecked toes, and a flawless smile for the outside world.

But what else did Shane Holland know about you?

Your perfume was sweet — vanilla mixed with orange, a scent that lingered in the air even after you were gone. Your voice was low, almost always too calm. You drove like you had no regard for consequences. And you were his client.

You. The golden girl. The Princess of Tommen.

His client.

The first time had been five months ago, at some random party. You bought two pills without hesitation, without asking anything but the price. Shane remembered it perfectly. He remembered because, in that moment, something didn’t add up.

How could he have imagined that you did drugs?

He wasn’t supposed to know. He wasn’t supposed to care. Fuck, it was just business. Shane never cared who bought from him — names, stories, reasons… none of that paid the bills. What mattered was the money.

Except with you, it wasn’t like that.

Every message that popped up on his phone. Every time your car pulled up in front of his house. Every visit, more frequent than the last.

He could no longer pretend he didn’t care.

Curiosity was eating him alive. What drove a girl who seemed to have the whole world in her hands to need that shit? What was missing in your life that brought you to his door in the middle of the night, hiding dark circles under your eyes and carrying too much silence in your stare?

He needed to know.

That was why, on that specific dawn, when you knocked on his door, Shane opened it and found you already holding out the twenty-euro bill, the gesture automatic, impatient.

But he didn’t hand you the little bag.

Instead, he stared.

He took in your empty expression, your cheeks flushed from the cold, your hair pulled into a messy bun, the hoodie too big for your delicate frame. He studied you like he never had before, as if he could rip answers straight from your skin.

You cleared your throat, annoyed. “Come on, Holland. Here’s the money, now just give it to me already…”

You held your hand out.

“I’ll give it to you,” he murmured, his voice low, restrained. He tilted his head slightly. “But first… I have a question.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh yeah? Now there are riddles to buy your stuff?” A skeptical half-smile tugged at your lips. “Doesn’t really sound like your style.”

He clicked his tongue, irritation flashing through him, but he didn’t back down. “I’ll sell it to you,” he said firmly. “If you tell me why you need it.”

And then Shane saw it. The confusion flicker across your face for just a second. The mask cracking.

Fuck it.