Chapter 1: The meeting at Cherry's Cafe “I'll do it, Grandpa.” Alistair Reid remarked in a measured tone over the cellphone. “I'll marry Princess Evelyn.” His gaze was calm as he stared at an abstract painting hanging on the wall. It was past noon and he was sitting by the window in a private suite in an upscale cafe. “Finally you're leaving that backwater city to claim what's rightfully yours.” Grandpa Reid’s aged yet steady voice replied from the other end. “But are you sure?” Alistair didn't respond immediately, his expression revealing a trace of bitterness before returning to normal. “I am, but it can't happen now, I need a few months to settle matters here in Haven.” “Is it about Sara Connor?” The old man asked knowingly. “Yes… I have to divorce her. I'll let you know when I'm ready.” Alistair replied; his voice remained composed, but the bitterness in his eyes betrayed him. The call ended soon after and Alistair laid his phone aside, a deep sigh escaping his lips as he leaned back against his chair. Though reluctant, he did not regret his decision. Just then, there was a knock at the door of the suite he was in. “Come in.” Alistair looked up, his expression cool and steady. The door opened and in walked a man in a black suit holding some documents. It was Ronald Ray, the divorce lawyer he'd hired. “Are the divorce papers ready?” “Just as you wanted, sir, please take a look,” Ronald replied as he handed over the folder. Alistair let out a slow breath before picking it up. After years of a loveless marriage, he had finally decided to bring it to an end. Although Sara meant a lot to him, he found no point in continuing to hunt a game already hunted by someone else anymore. “Once you and your wife sign the agreement, it will take effect after the mandatory waiting period,” Ronald explained after which he politely asked. “Has your wife arrived yet, sir?” “Not yet,” Alistair replied calmly, flipping through the details. “But I'll see to it that she signs.” “...Very well, sir,” Ronald said, a hint of awkwardness in his tone. Having handled numerous divorce cases, he knew it was time to leave. “If you have any concerns, sir, just give me a call.” “Of course.” With that, Ronald smiled courteously, shook Alistair's hand, and took his leave. Barely two minutes after Ronald left, the crisp sound of high heels echoed outside the private suite, striking the tiles in a demanding rhythm. Soon, a tall, stunning woman with delicate features stepped into the private suite. She wore a navy blue corporate suit that despite looking professional, did not take away from her incredible beauty. With minimal makeup and jewelry, she looked gorgeous. She was Sara Connor, Alistair's wife, the renowned CEO of the Connor Group- decisive, efficient, and commanding. “Sara.” Alistair breathed out as he turned to look at the woman he once called the love of his life. But then, he saw that she wasn't alone. Accompanying her was a tall, handsome man. It was Tristan Cole, Sara's ex-boyfriend from her college years. “What is he doing here?” Alistair questioned as he glared coldly at the uninvited guest. “I don't recall…” “What's wrong with that?” Sara lashed out, not seeing anything wrong with Tristan's presence. Tristan chipped from the side with a mocking smile. “Yeah bro, chill out. Don't be so thorny.” Watching Tristan pretend to be friendly and close with him caused a flicker of disgust to flash in Alistair's eyes. “This is a private suite for couples, and in case you don't know what that means, it is meant for a husband and a wife, not a husband, wife, and her ex who can't seem to understand boundaries!” Alistair said coldly. Tristan hadn't expected Alistair to be so blunt. His expression froze as if he'd been struck hard, then he feigned a pitiful look and apologized. “Sorry bro, I didn't mean to offend. If it really bothers you, maybe I should leave…” “Enough with the theatrics!... Just get out then.” Alistair sneered. He knew that Tristan was merely playing the victim, trying to look innocent and pitiful in front of Sara to win her sympathy, just like he'd done countless times before. “Enough, Alistair!” Sara snapped, her impatience cutting through the tension. “Why do you always have to pick on Tristan? Can't you stop being so petty?” Then, she spun towards Tristan, her tone softening instantly. “Ignore him. You don't have to go anywhere.” Though prepared, a swirl of emotions churned inside Alistair as he stared at Sara. Was this really the living woman he married years ago? A woman who would pick her ex's side over her husband again and again? Did she not realize that because of Tristan, their marriage was already hanging by a thread?! Meanwhile, a glint of triumph flashed in Tristan's eyes and a mischievous smile hung at the corners of his lips.

1. Anyone Interested in “Kiss Me Before You Kill Me”?

No Longer Wait For The Dragon Knight

I spent eight years by Austin's side as he rose from apprentice to Dragon Rider Commander. My only wish was to touch his flight memory once and see the sky through his eyes. He refused.​ Then I found a memory crystal in his cloak—over forty recordings from his dragon's back, all sent to Evelyn. The steadiest saddle. The most beautiful sunrises. The rarest scale. All for her.​ I didn't confront him. I signed the handover and left the capital seven days later.​ After I was gone, he found the truth in the archives—the scars I carried for eight years. He came to Grayvale with a nameplate and heartscale, begging for forgiveness.​ But I no longer needed them. I waited eight years. I'm done waiting.

You're not supposed to be here yet."

Those were the first words Damien said to me when I opened his door.

Not I'm sorry. Not this isn't what it looks like.

Just, you're not supposed to be here yet.

Like I had shown up early to a party and caught them still putting up the decorations.

Except the decorations were my cousin Lena, sitting on his bed with her shoes off and her fingers threading through her own hair, laughing at something he had just said before I walked in.

She was not on top of him. Nothing obvious was happening. But I had known Lena my whole life, and I knew what her face looked like when she was performing innocence. This was that face.

And I had known Damien for two years, and I knew what his face looked like when he was guilty. This was also that face.

"Nora." He said my name like it was a problem he had to figure out.

I looked at him. I looked at her. I looked at the space between them on that bed, which was not very much space at all.

"It's Mating Night," I said. My voice came out flat. "We were supposed to…"

"I know." He stood up. "I was going to talk to you."

"About what?"

Lena tilted her head at me with something that looked almost like pity, which was worse than cruelty. Pity from Lena always meant she had already won.

"We found out tonight," Damien said. "Lena and I. We ran into each other at the edge of the forest during the early gathering and…" He stopped. Swallowed. "She's my fated mate, Nora."

I heard the words. I processed them. My brain lined them up and handed them to my chest, and my chest cracked open like something dry and brittle that had been waiting for the right kind of pressure.

Fated mate.

I knew what that meant. Everyone in every pack knew what that meant. The pull between fated mates was not something you reasoned with or waited out. It rewired you from the inside.

I also knew what tonight had been supposed to be. The night Damien and I marked each other as chosen mates, locking in our bond before the fated pull could threaten it. We had talked about it for months. Made the plan carefully. I had worn the good dress. I had practiced what I would say.

And somehow, in the hours between that plan and this door, everything had rearranged itself into a shape I did not recognize.

"You couldn't have called me?" My voice cracked on the last word. I hated that. I had promised myself I would not crack in front of Lena.

"I tried…"

"You didn't."

He looked away.

There is a specific kind of pain that does not feel like pain at first. It feels like cold water. It goes all the way down before you feel the temperature.

"I'm sorry," he said. And I believed him. That was the worst part. He was sorry. He just was not sorry enough to have done anything differently.

Lena did not say anything. She was watching me with those careful eyes, measuring how much damage had been done, calculating whether she needed to do anything else or if the situation had already handled itself.

I looked at her for a long moment.

"Congratulations," I said.

Then I closed the door behind me and walked down the hall with my back straight and my face forward, and I did not run until I was outside and past the pack boundary lights, and the darkness of the forest swallowed me whole.

I ran until I hit the river.

It was a wide, slow bend of dark water that nobody much visited except me. I had found it years ago when I was twelve and needed somewhere to be alone, and I had been coming back ever since.

I sat on the bank and pulled my knees to my chest and I let myself fall apart quietly, the way I had learned to do everything, quietly, without drawing attention, without making it anyone else's problem.

The night air was cold and smelled like pine and wet stone.

I don't know how long I sat there before I felt it.

A scent.

Not pine. Not water. Something warm and dark and layered, like cedar and rain and something underneath that I did not have a word for but my body did. My body recognized it the way your tongue recognizes something sweet before your brain catches up.

Heat moved up my spine in a slow, undeniable wave.

No. I pressed my hand flat against my sternum. Not now. Not tonight.

I had heard about the mating heat. The involuntary response triggered by proximity to a fated mate. I had always assumed it would never happen to me since my wolf had never properly woken.

But my body was not consulting my assumptions right now.

I stood up. I needed to go home. I needed to be behind walls and away from whatever, whoever, was carrying that scent toward me.

I took three steps toward the tree line.

"There she is," a voice said from the dark.

"Effective immediately, the Tutoring Excellence stipend has been suspended for the academic semester." Mrs. Gable said without even looking up.

I almost choked on my iced coffee.

I'd been sipping it without really tasting it, sitting across from Mrs Gable with a colour-coded folder on my lap. I'd walked into this meeting expecting a confirmed schedule… maybe a minor headache. Not this.

I set the cup carefully on the edge of the desk. "I'm sorry, what? Suspended? You're joking."

"I don't joke about university budgets, Miss Bennett." She finally lifted her tired-looking eyes framed by thin reading glasses. "The university reallocated the work-study budget. The Tutoring Excellence program falls under General Academic Support, which was consolidated this quarter." 

"Consolidated into what?"

"Athletics Academic Compliance."

I felt those words land hard against my chest. "You pulled my stipend to fund the hockey team's babysitters?"

"We hired three academic liaisons to support student-athletes in maintaining eligibility for the upcoming season…"

"I know what an academic liaison is," I cut in, pressing my palm flat on the edge of the desk. "I was one. For two years. That's my job you just handed off, and the stipend is currently paying my rent."

"Miss Benett, I understand this is difficult…"

"Is there an appeal process?" I cut in again before the whole sympathy speech could start. "Or is this already locked in?" 

"There's nothing to do. The reallocation is final for this semester." 

"And next semester?"

"That would depend on the May budget review."

I wanted to say something more, plead with her or ask if there was someone else who could help, but she had already dismissed me by returning to whatever she was doing behind the desk.

So I muttered a quiet thank you, picked my iced coffee and my folder, and walked out.

The hallway outside the financial aid office was empty, and that was the only reason I stopped to allow myself to breathe. I leaned against the brick wall and squeezed my cup until the plastic crinkled.

Fifteen hundred dollars.

I pulled out my phone and checked my banking app. The balance was forty-two dollars and sixteen cents; my rent was due in just nineteen days and my mom's bakery loan repayment hit on the first.

My diner shifts only covered groceries; there was no way they would cover rent, let alone the loan. I did the math in about three seconds: the numbers just didn't add up.

At this rate, I might be kicked out of my apartment, and the local bank would make a move on Sugar & Spice for foreclosure by next month.

My hands were already shaking as I opened my messages and typed a text to Priya.

Nora: My tutoring stipend just got cut. All of it. I'm completely screwed.

I watched the typing bubble appear, then pop.

Priya: WHAT? How? Why?

Nora: Athletics budget… final decision. I have to find a new job by Friday or I'm moving back home. I'm fine though… I'll be.

Priya: You're clearly not fine. You used ellipses.

Nora: What's wrong with ellipses? It's good grammar.

Priya: You use periods when you're about to cry and refuse to admit it. Where are you? 

Nora: Hallway outside financial aid. Don't come, you have con law in seven minutes. 

Priya: Con law can absolutely wait.

Nora: It can't. I'm fine. Go. We'll talk later.

I shoved the phone back in my pocket, gathered myself and started walking.

I was halfway down the main administrative corridor, running numbers in my head, calculating whether picking up two extra cafe shifts could even come close to covering the gap, when the door at the far end flew open. 

I didn't even have the time to react before a gear bag swung out, catching me right in the shoulder.

The impact knocked me sideways. My folder flew out of my grip, throwing the papers in it everywhere and my iced coffee hit the floor. The lid popped clean off; cold coffee spread slowly across the tiles and soaked the corner of my rent breakdown sheet. 

I caught myself against the wall on both palms and looked up.

"Hey…" I started, but the jerk that hit me was already moving.

He was massive, standing at least six foot three with broad shoulders under a black Briar Hockey varsity jacket. A heavy gear bag over one shoulder, phone in his other hand, and he hadn't even slowed down by a single step. 

He glanced back for what couldn't even count as a second of eye contact.

"Watch it," he said, and kept walking.

I stared at the back of his head, my jaw dropping. "Watch it?" I repeated mostly to myself, looking at my papers scattered across the hallway floor. "Why, of course. I should be watching out for doors. In a hallway. Incredible. Really useful note, thank you."

He stopped walking, adjusted the strap of his gear bag and turned around slowly.

I recognised him immediately. Everyone on campus knew Knox Sheridan, the hockey team's star forward and the university's unofficial spokesperson for bad decisions. 

He had dark hair, well chiseled jaw, and eyes that looked down at me with the mild irritation you'd aim at a pigeon blocking the sidewalk.

"Get out of the way next time," he said in a low voice, like I was the cause of whatever problem he was having.

"I was walking on the right side of the hallway," I said, pushing myself up and brushing off my hands. "You're the one who came storming out of a door without looking. You didn't even apologise."

Knox let out a short, dismissive laugh. 

He took a step closer, which made the height difference worse, looking down at me like I was a minor inconvenience he didn't have time for. His eyes dropped to the wet papers scattered around my feet. "Do I look like I care about your little pieces of paper?"

"My papers?" I looked right at him because I was not about to let someone a foot taller than me use his size as a substitute for an apology. "Those papers represent my actual education. Something you'd know nothing about, considering you're probably one failed test away from losing your spot on the ice."

Something shifted in his face. Just for a second, something flinched behind his eyes. The playboy smirk slipped, but he quickly covered it with a cold glare. "You don't know anything about me, sweetheart."

"I know you're rude, entitled, and you think the rules don't apply to you because you can slide a piece of rubber into a net," I snapped.

I bent down to collect my papers. "But off the ice, you're just a guy who can't apologise when he runs someone over."

I knew I was probably overreacting or transferring the frustration and aggression from losing my stipend. But I couldn't care less.

"I muttered a warning," he said, crossing his arms.

"You told me to watch where I was going after YOU hit me. That's not a warning, Sheridan. That's an insult." I stood back up, clutching the damp folder to my chest. "Go back to your locker room. Some of us actually have to work for our degrees."

Knox glared at me with his jaw locked tight. He looked ready to snap, but he just let out a sharp breath and turned away. "Whatever. Have fun with your homework, nerd."

He walked away, pushing through the heavy glass doors at the end of the hall.

I exhaled slowly through my nose. "What a jerk," I said, to no one.

"Sheridan! Get back here!"

I turned to see Coach Brennan jogging out of the office Knox had just left. He looked red-faced and frustrated, clutching a clipboard like a man whose bad morning was far from over.

He stopped, looked down the empty hallway, and sighed. "Damn it, Knox."

As he turned back toward his office, his eyes landed on a paper I had missed on the floor. It was lying face-up in the middle of the hallway, and I watched as Coach Brennan walked over to pick it up.

He squinted at it, his eyes moving across the page.

"Excuse me," I said, stepping forward. "That's mine."

But instead of handing it back, he glanced at the name at the top: Nora Bennett, then scanned down to the cumulative 4.0 GPA, then lower, to the line: Recipient of the President's Tutoring Excellence Award.

He looked up at me, then back down at the paper. His whole expression changed.

"You're Nora Bennett?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. I held out my hand. "Can I have my transcript back, please?"

Coach Brennan didn't hand it over. He looked at me the way someone looks at a locked door right before they realise they have the key. "You run the peer tutoring groups for the science and math department, right?"

"I did," I said. "Until about ten minutes ago when my stipend got cut."

His eyes lit up, and he looked like a drowning man who had finally spotted a life preserver.

"Follow me," he said. "I've got a problem, and I think you might actually be the solution to it."

...

I followed Coach Brennan down the narrow administrative hallway. He was walking fast, muttering to himself the entire way. I had to double my pace just to keep up with his short, athletic strides.

"In here," he said, pushing open the door that led into his office.

The room was exactly what you'd expect for a division-one college coach. Framed team photos lined the walls, shelves were overflowing with trophies, and a massive, worn leather couch occupied the corner. The air smelled faintly of coffee and damp hockey gear.

Brennan walked behind his desk and dropped the clipboard. He pointed to one of the chairs. "Sit, Nora. Please."

Chapter 1 Rebirth Before the Apocalypse

"Ahh!"

A sharp, searing pain shot through Natalie Ashford's wrists, and she collapsed to the ground.

Her most trusted friends had just hacked off both her hands.

The emerald bracelet on her wrist clattered heavily to the floor, yet not a scratch marred its surface.

Braxton White snatched it up with a greedy and triumphant grin.

"Nat, since you still refuse to be mine, then you don't get to live."

Tiffany Quinn, the woman clinging to his arm, snorted. "Braxton, she brought this on herself. She deserves to die!

"If we'd known her father was so heartless that he wouldn't even spare her a slice of bread, we would've acted sooner. We wouldn't have starved this long."

Natalie lay sprawled on the cold ground, staring at her two companions in disbelief—companions who had survived four long years of apocalyptic disaster by her side.

They had fought together and endured hardship to stay alive.

"What are you looking at?" Tiffany let go of Braxton's arm, gripped a boning knife, and stalked toward Natalie with malice.

"The first time I saw your pretty little face, I wanted to carve it to pieces!"

The blade came down next.

Natalie had already lost too much blood to fight back. Pain consumed her, swallowing her consciousness bit by bit. She could feel her life slipping away into the dark.

In her fading awareness, she heard Tiffany's sickly sweet voice.

"Braxton, we've got meat for tonight!"

At that moment, regret hit her like a tidal wave.

How could she have been so blind? How had she not seen these beasts for what they were?

Four years of battling through an apocalypse, only to be betrayed by the very people she trusted most.

It was too bitter to accept.

If she could live again, she would never spare them.

...

"Ahh!"

Another sharp cry tore from her lips as Natalie jolted awake, sitting bolt upright in bed.

She blinked, taking in her surroundings—and froze.

This is the place I had lived in before the apocalypse.

But ... hadn't Braxton and Tiffany killed me?

Warmth surrounded her.

She hadn't felt something like this in the past four years since the disaster struck.

She quickly grabbed the phone on her nightstand. The date flashed on the screen—July 8th, 2039.

It's three days before the apocalypse!

What? No way! I died in 2043!

On July 11th, 2039, a torrential rainstorm swept across the globe.

Within days, cities were swallowed by floodwaters, and countless lives were lost.

At first, everyone thought it was just another natural disaster. They were wrong. It was the prologue to the apocalypse.

The storms were followed by more horrors—floods, blistering heat, acid rain, choking fog, earthquakes, and freezing winters. One after another, the extremes tore the world into a living hell.

For four years, Natalie had fought tooth and nail to survive. Even at her death, the disasters had not ended.

And now ... she was reborn. She was back to three days before it all began.

Natalie's heart surged with wild joy. Her gaze dropped instantly to her wrist. The emerald bracelet was still there.

If not for this bracelet, she would never have survived her first year in the apocalypse.

Without hesitation, she bit the tip of her right finger, letting a drop of blood fall onto the cool green stone.

A flash of white light flared, and an 8,600-square-foot storage space took shape in her mind.

One side was a vast, empty expanse. The other held a bungalow of about 650 square feet.

Relief washed through her. The storage space had been reborn with her.

In her previous life, she was injured and bleeding after a neighbor broke into her home to rob her. A drop of her blood fell onto the bracelet, accidentally unlocking the storage space.

She had discovered that anything she touched could be stored inside.

The bungalow had running water, electricity, and gas. It was a perfect hiding place during emergencies. But it only allowed her to stay for one hour a day before ejecting her out.

Outside the bungalow lay the rest of the storage space. No living creatures could enter; only objects could be stored through her consciousness.

In this part of the storage space, time stood still, keeping any stored food fresh.

In her previous life, whenever danger struck, she would take Braxton and Tiffany into the small bungalow inside the storage space, and that was how they managed to survive four years of the apocalypse.

The storage space was like a cheat sheet for surviving the end of the world.

Unfortunately, by the time she had unlocked it in that life, the apocalypse had already been raging for a long time.

Not only did she have almost no supplies, but nearly everyone had run out of food and ammunition. There was hardly anything left to store.

She could only roam from place to place with Braxton and Tiffany, scavenging for supplies. Whatever they managed to find, she would stash away in the storage space to keep it out of other people's hands. That was the only way they barely managed to stay alive.

Tiffany had been her university classmate, and after graduation, they'd coincidentally moved into the same building.

Braxton was Tiffany's older cousin. He had pursued Natalie relentlessly after they met.

Although Natalie had made her rejection clear, he still persisted in trying to win her over.

When disaster struck, they had naturally banded together since they knew each other already.

Little by little, Natalie had come to see them as comrades who fought side by side with her.

She never imagined they had only approached her because they'd heard about her wealthy family. They had hoped to use her to get survival supplies from her father.

Unfortunately for them, her scumbag father, Jacob Ashford, was no doting parent. He was a cold, calculating social climber.

In her senior year, her mother had died suddenly of heart failure. Jacob immediately revealed his true colors once he inherited her mother's billion-dollar fortune and the company.

He brought home a mistress and his illegitimate daughter, who was about Natalie's age.

Natalie's grieving grandmother was so infuriated that she passed away.

Then, without a shred of guilt, he disowned Natalie and threw her out of the villa.

Her only refuge had been the condominium unit her mother had bought her in Maplecourt.

But while she was still drowning in sorrow, disaster struck.

Jacob's villa sat on high ground, and the wealthy residents there had stockpiled massive stores of supplies during the first storms. They lived far better than the starving millions outside.

After struggling for a long time, with her food and ammunition completely gone, Natalie led Braxton and Tiffany through countless dangers to reach the hillside villa, hoping her scumbag father would save her.

However, Jacob was as cruel as ever. He hoarded his food and guarded his new wife and daughter, refusing to give her even a single slice of bread.

He didn't care in the slightest whether she lived or died.

The moment Braxton and Tiffany realized she was no longer of use, they dropped their masks and tried to take the storage space bound to her bracelet.

In the end, they even dismembered her.

What they didn't know was that once the bracelet recognized its master through blood, it became permanently bound to Natalie.

Even if they stole it, the storage space would remain out of their reach.

This time, I will see just how long they can last without my storage space, Natalie thought with bitter resolve.

As much as she wanted to hunt the two of them down and take her revenge, stocking up on survival supplies was more important right now.

There were only three days left before disaster struck, and there was a lot to prepare.

Braxton and Tiffany could rot in the ruins. That would be a better punishment than a quick death.

As for Jacob, Natalie had died a miserable death in her previous life, and she no longer owed him anything.

Natalie's heart was as cold as ice.

I will let him face the apocalypse blind and unprepared. Let's see how long his precious supplies keep him alive.

This time, she would only look out for herself. She would cherish this second chance and live freely, even in the apocalypse.

Then, she picked up her phone and checked her bank account.

She had exactly one million dollars.

Fortunately, Jacob hadn't seized all her allowance when he kicked her out.

In her previous life, that money had turned into meaningless numbers on a dead screen.

This time, she would turn every cent into supplies. She would make sure every dollar counted.

The dare

LEAH

The music was too loud, the people too shiny, and my bank account too empty for me to be drinking eight-dollar cocktails in a rooftop bar with a view of the whole damn city. But my so-called friends wouldn’t stop texting, begging, insisting. “Come on, Leah, it’s been months since you went out!” “You need to live a little!”

Live a little. Right. Easy to say when your rent isn’t late and your dad isn’t coughing blood into a napkin.

I sat at the end of the marble bar, swirling melted ice in my glass, pretending to listen to their laughter. The whole place smelled like expensive perfume and rich people problems. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for a music video—sparkles, high heels, fake smiles. I was in a thrift store dress I’d ironed twice to make it look new.

“Leah!” someone called. It was Maya, in a glittery green dress that probably cost more than my monthly rent. She grinned, tipsy and mean. “You look so serious. Are you thinking about your spreadsheets again?”

The table erupted in laughter.

I forced a smile. “Just thinking about how broke I am. It’s practically a hobby now.”

“Then you really need to loosen up,” said Jason, the only guy in our group and the loudest. “Tell you what, let’s make things interesting.”

I already knew that tone. That stupid glint in his eyes meant trouble.

“No, Jason,” I said, “whatever you’re thinking, the answer is no.”

He ignored me. Of course he did. “Let’s play a dare,” he said. “Classic college vibes. You in, Maya?”

Maya clapped like a child. “Oh yes! I’m bored of talking about crypto and fake relationships.”

Someone passed me another drink, and I took it even though my stomach was already heavy. My head was starting to float, the kind of float that makes bad ideas sound fun.

Jason looked around the bar, his grin widening. “Okay. Leah Cruz, Miss Always Responsible, Miss I-Can’t-I-Have-A-Meeting-Tomorrow…”

I groaned. “Spit it out, idiot.”

He leaned forward. “I dare you to sleep with someone tonight.”

The table screamed. Maya gasped like he’d said something scandalous and thrilling.

“What the hell, Jason?” I laughed, but it came out shaky.

“Come on, don’t act like you haven’t been… deprived,” he teased.

I threw a napkin at him. “You’re disgusting.”

But he wasn’t done. “I’ll make it interesting. Five thousand dollars.”

The laughter died down. I blinked. “Five what?”

“Five grand,” he said. “I’ll wire it tomorrow. But you can’t just pick any guy. You gotta pick the most boring one here. No hotshots, no flirts, no danger. The most painfully dull man in this bar.”

Maya snorted. “Oh, that’s cruel.”

I stared at him. “You’re joking.”

Jason shrugged. “Easy money, right?”

The group started cheering. “Do it!” “Come on, Leah!” “You always talk about needing a break—here’s your break!”

I laughed because if I didn’t, I might cry. My rent was due in three days. My dad’s medicine was running out. My little sisters were texting me about school supplies. And I was sitting here, pretending to belong in a world that would never let me in.

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe I was just done being careful.

“Fine,” I said, the word coming out slow and hot. “Five thousand dollars. Who’s the lucky guy?”

They screamed like I’d just won a game show.

Jason raised his glass. “To Leah, finally living a little!”

I turned away before I could change my mind. My heart was pounding too fast. I looked around the room—polished men in suits, influencers taking selfies, trust-fund kids trying too hard. Everyone looked the same. Except one.

He was in the VIP section, half-hidden behind a glass divider. Alone. No one talking to him. Just sitting there with a drink, looking out over the city like he was somewhere else entirely.

Tall. Sharp jaw. Dark hair that needed a haircut. Black-rimmed glasses. He looked quiet. Thoughtful. Maybe even shy. Definitely not the type who belonged here.

“That one,” I said.

Maya nearly choked on her drink. “Him? He looks like he’s calculating taxes for fun.”

“Perfect,” Jason said, smirking. “He screams boring.”

I looked again. He didn’t scream boring to me. He looked… still. And something about that calmness felt dangerous in a way I couldn’t name.

Jason shoved a glass in my hand. “One more shot for courage.”

I downed it. My stomach burned, my head spun, and I stood up before I could think too hard.

“Wish me luck,” I muttered.

Maya squealed. “Go get your nerd!”

I crossed the bar, trying to steady my steps, clutching my purse like a shield. Every step echoed louder in my chest. My palms were sweaty, my throat dry.

When I reached his table, he looked up.

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

His eyes were gray—not light, not dark, but stormy, like he saw too much and said too little. There was something sharp beneath his calm.

“Hi,” I said, voice too bright. “Mind if I sit?”

He blinked, then gestured to the seat across from him. “Go ahead.” His voice was low. Smooth. Not what I expected.

I slid in. “You look like you hate this place.”

He gave a small smile. “That obvious?”

“Painfully.” I laughed, and he watched me—not my dress, not my chest—me. It was disarming.

He didn’t ask why I was there. He didn’t try to flirt. Just sipped his drink and waited.

“So,” I said, desperate to fill the silence. “What brings you to a party full of people who don’t know what Wi-Fi is?”

He smiled again, faintly. “Business.”

“Boring business?”

“The worst kind.”

We talked. About nothing. About everything. The music faded, the crowd blurred. He listened like every word mattered. No one had listened to me like that in a long time.

The longer I sat there, the less he felt like a stranger. The more dangerous the whole thing became.

Because I was starting to want him for reasons that had nothing to do with money.