Chapter 1

//Melissa's POV//

The rain in the city wasn't just falling; it felt like it was judging me. It slicked the pavement outside the massive glass tower of Vance Financial, reflecting the neon storefronts in cold, broken sheets. I stood on the sidewalk, holding a soggy cardboard box that was rapidly giving up on life. Inside was my entire corporate legacy: a cheap ceramic mug that read "World's Okayest Employee," three gel pens, and a sad little plastic desk plant.

Twenty-four. Today was my twenty-fourth birthday, and instead of the promotion I'd spent eighteen months grinding for, I'd been handed a severance packet that wouldn't even cover two months of rent and utilities.

My supervisor's parting words were still ringing in my ears over the hiss of city traffic: "If you can't be a team player, Melissa, management has to look for someone more... accommodating." The jerk's lies to HR had been seamless. In less than twenty minutes, my perfect work record had been completely wiped out just because I wouldn't let him corner me in the copy room.

I looked down at my phone. A single notification blinked on the screen: an automated text from my bank reminding me that rent was due soon.

A dark, reckless spark flared up beneath my ribs. For my entire life, I had been the sensible one. The practical one. I graduated early, wore the stiff pencil skirts, kept my head down, and played completely by the rules. And where had it gotten me? Standing in the pouring rain, blackballed from my industry on my birthday.

"Fuck it," I whispered to the empty street.

I tossed the cardboard box directly into a nearby trash can. Pulling up my banking app, I stared at the numbers in my savings. Every single cent I had saved for a rainy day was sitting right there. Well, it was pouring.

I turned on my heel, my stiff office flats splashing through the puddles, and walked straight toward the glowing, high-end district at the edge of downtown. I didn't know where I was going, only that I desperately wanted to drown out the entire day.

The bass didn't just play; it vibrated straight through the soles of my feet before I even crossed the threshold. The sign over the canopy read The Velvet Crypt-a name that sounded ridiculously expensive and pretentious enough to match the luxury sports cars lined up at the curb. I didn't care. I pushed past the velvet ropes, completely ignoring the heavy, judging look the massive bouncer gave me.

Inside, the atmosphere hit me like a physical wall of heat, expensive cologne, and dark R&B. Josh Levi's Birthday Dance was thumping through the hidden speakers. The slow, heavy, hypnotic rhythm felt like a cruel joke given the day I'd had, but the bassline was so thick it practically forced your feet to move.

As my eyes adjusted to the dim, red lighting, I realized I was wildly out of place. The women hanging around the leather booths were draped in designer silk, backless cocktail dresses, or intricate lace outfits. The guys were in custom suits, casually tossing down black cards.

Great. A high-end host club. I had stumbled right into a playground for sugar babies and millionaires.

A wave of hot, stubborn defiance washed over me. I wasn't leaving. I marched straight to the polished obsidian bar, pulled out my credit card, and caught the bartender's eye. "Bring me a shot of whatever is strongest. Actually, just leave the bottle."

Three shots in, the corporate filter in my brain completely shattered. The liquid courage burned a path straight down my throat, turning my deep depression into pure, unfiltered rage. I looked at the dance floor, where people were moving like they were auditioning for a fashion catalog. They looked so fake. Everything was so fake.

I kicked off my stiff office flats, sending them flying under a nearby stool. I yanked the silk neck-tie off, throwing it blindly into the dark. With trembling, angry fingers, I popped open the top three buttons of my button-down shirt, letting the cool air hit my skin, and tore the elastic out of my ponytail.

I marched out onto the floor. I didn't care who was watching. I didn't care that my tight pencil skirt restricted my legs. As the heavy bass dropped, I just let go. I danced like a woman possessed, moving my hips to the slow tempo, losing myself in the noise, letting the movement rip the memory of my terrible boss right out of my head. For the first time in years, I wasn't Melissa the analyst. I was just pure chaos.

Eventually, I stumbled back toward the bar, my chest heaving, gasping for air.

The rage was still buzzing, but the alcohol was finally catching up, making the red lights blur into warm streaks. I slammed my palm on the cool stone counter. "Another glass. Same thing."

Before the guy behind the bar could even reach for the bottle, a broad shadow fell over me. A tall guy in a tailored vest perched himself on the stool right next to mine. I didn't look up at his face at first, but I could feel the heavy, intense presence radiating off him.

Exhausted, I let my head drop sideways onto the bar, my cheek resting against the cold surface as I turned my face toward him. "Why are you following me-?"

He smirked at my slurred words. He leaned down, propping his elbow on the bar and resting his chin in his hand, tilting his head to look directly into my eyes from just inches away. His eyes were a deep, piercing blue, framed by jet-black hair. "Who says I'm following you?" I scoffed, pushing myself up with a heavy dose of dramatic annoyance, and chugged the entire freshly poured glass down in one go. The burn didn't even phase me anymore.

"Bet you think you're real charming," I stammered, pointing at him aggressively with the hand still holding the empty glass. My vision wobbled, but I locked onto his sharp features. "With your black midnight hair and gorgeous, deep... blue... eyes-" I trailed off for a second, shaking my head violently to clear the fog. "No! I won't be tricked by you nepo baby types!"

I slammed the glass down on the stone counter with a loud clink.

He lifted a brow, looking genuinely amused. "Huh... I don't know whether to be happy or insulted."

"Up to you," I muttered, waving a dismissive hand. "Nepo babies and that jerk from my office... oh right, I got fired today. Men who act high-end... you're all the same. Relatively speaking."

A real, low laugh broke out of his throat at my unfiltered rant. I was dead serious, my face twisted into a fierce scowl. Suddenly, he reached out, his fingers catching the bridge of my nose, and gave it a light, playful pinch. "You are seriously drunk. And you're definitely not the target market in this club, sweetheart." I scowled deeper at the nose pinch, but then my mood completely flipped. "So? Don't I deserve a little fun?"

I smirked up at him with the most unfiltered grin I'd probably ever given a stranger. But before he could even reply, my eyelids grew insanely heavy. The room started spinning, my eyes closed, and my body completely gave out.

The last thing I felt was his hand gently catching my forehead before I could smash my face against the hard bar.

My brain woke up way before my eyes did, and it brought a massive sledgehammer with it.

A brutal, skull-crushing hangover was pounding behind my temples, making even breathing feel like a bad idea. I groaned, rolling over, expecting to feel the familiar, lumpy mattress of my tiny apartment.

Instead, I sank into what felt like a cloud made of pure silk.

My eyes snapped open. The light blinding me wasn't coming through my cheap plastic blinds; it was pouring through massive, floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the entire city skyline. The room was huge, decked out in dark marble, plush velvet, and gold accents.

I threw back the heavy blanket, a cold spike of adrenaline instantly vaporizing my hangover. I wasn't wearing my pencil skirt or my button-down shirt anymore. I was in a clean, white, oversized luxury t-shirt that definitely didn't belong to me.

Oh my god.

I scrambled out of the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. I checked myself frantically-no pain, no bruises, no signs that anything horrible had happened. My clothes from yesterday were neatly folded on a velvet armchair, my office flats sitting right beneath them.

Suddenly, a soft knock rattled the door, and a waiter in a vest pushed in a rolling cart piled high with food-smoked salmon, fresh fruit, and a pot of steaming coffee.

"Complimentary breakfast for the penthouse suite, ma'am," he said with a polite bow, leaving the cart and exiting before I could even open my mouth.

Penthouse suite?!

I practically tripped over my own feet rushing to the nightstand, looking for a bill or a receipt to see how many thousands of dollars I was about to be sued for. Instead, my hand brushed against a piece of thick hotel stationery.

Written in dark, sharp handwriting was a single sentence:

Call me, little Bambi.

Beneath it was a ten-digit phone number.

I stared at the paper, my breath hitching as fuzzy memories flashed through the alcohol fog-deep blue eyes, a low laugh, a playful pinch to my nose, and the heavy bass of the club. I frantically checked my purse. My card was still there. No money was missing.

Panic, pure and intense, seized my throat. I didn't know who this guy was, I couldn't afford this insane room, and I had zero intention of getting dragged into whatever weird game he was playing. I yanked my crumpled work clothes back on, shoved my feet into my shoes, grabbed my bag, and bolted out the door into the morning sun, leaving the gourmet breakfast completely untouched.

There was absolutely no way in hell I was ever calling that number.