This story started where most unexpected ideas bloom: in the middle of a dull work task. I was filtering through a wave of spam emails when I came across one of those classics, "Hello, I am a prince from... and I require your help transferring funds…" It felt straight out of 2010, and the fact that these were still being sent in 2025? That alone was poetic. But then something clicked. What if someone actually responded?
I remembered a forum thread—Reddit, maybe?—where someone once claimed these emails sometimes led to more elaborate scams, real systems, maybe even people behind them who operated in layers. Whether that was true or not, I don't know. But the idea of it—of someone actually replying—refused to leave me. And that what if became the root of everything.
I've always been intrigued by the concept of money laundering, and this story became my chance to explore it—not through the lens of violence or greed, but through irony, soft sweaters, ridiculousness, and a little romantic chaos. I've seen businesses in real life that started suspiciously and somehow morphed into legitimate success stories. That idea—that fiction and reality blur—lingered quietly beneath the surface.
I didn't want this to be a gritty gang drama. Truthfully, most of what I know about underworlds comes from Korean manhwa I read all the time, and even those aren't exactly FBI-approved research. So I used that element more as texture... background noise that hums behind the main melody of Reed and Lucien's connection.
At its core, this story was an experiment in ridiculousness. A fantasy born from a scam email. This story was an experiment in tone, in softness, in letting a story breathe without trying to make it carry the weight of the world. That doesn't mean there weren't feelings—there were. Betrayal. Grief. Trust. Love. All gently stitched in. But never in a way that asked too much. I wanted it to be emotional without being exhausting.
Reed, for me, is one of my favorite characters I've ever written. He's smart, sarcastic, emotionally reckless His playlist is erratic, his life even more so, but he's grounded in this undeniable, reluctant warmth. I love his mess, his tenderness, his stubbornness. And Rowan—Lucien—is everything elegant and broken, someone trying not to care and failing spectacularly.
There's a moment near the end, in a quiet ballroom where Reed and Rowan slow dance under low chandeliers, surrounded by elderly couples. It may read like a soft interlude after everything they've endured. But to me, it's something else entirely. That scene was never about beauty. It was about survival.
Because the room they're standing in isn't filled with fantasy... it's filled with proof. Each couple spinning gently across that floor has survived something: grief, betrayal, illness, boredom, routine, war, silence. They're not dancing for elegance. They're dancing because their bodies remember how. Because in the aftermath of everything, they still choose each other.
Placing Reed and Rowan among them was intentional. They don't belong there—not yet. They're still raw, still reeling, still unsure whether their closeness is a miracle or a mistake. But in that moment, they're surrounded by people who made it to the other side of pain. They are being witnessed by a room of love that has been tested and didn't collapse.
And so, the dance becomes a question: Can we become one of them? Could this be us, someday? Could we live long enough to become something quiet and strong?
It's not a declaration. It's not a conclusion. It's a hope.
One that neither of them can say out loud, but both feel in the quiet weight of the other's body. One step. Then another. That's all it takes. Not to erase the past, but to outlive it.
Because love doesn't always arrive dressed in joy. Sometimes, it shows up as exhaustion. As a hand that doesn't let go, even when the building is burning down around you. As two people holding on not because it's easy, but because the alternative is silence. And they've already survived too much of that.
At the end there was no final heist. No revenge kill. No easy triumph.
Instead, the climax was intended to be internal. Sometimes the wiser option is to leave instead of fighting a lost battle. The stakes are built not on the money, or the scams, or the violence, but on the emotional consequences of staying. Or leaving.
This story was never meant to be dissected, it was meant to be felt. Laughed at. Maybe sighed over. Hopefully remembered.
And now that you've made it to the end, I just want to say thank you.
To everyone who heard me yap endlessly about this story, thank you.
And to every single reader who made it to the final page—thank you.
I hope this was a good ride. I hope you enjoyed reading it, as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Please don't shy away if you have any questions or thoughts. I'd love to hear them.
—A.G.