The club was drowning in light and sound—bass drops shaking the floor, neon colors slicing through darkness, bodies tangled in a blur of movement. But Amelia Rose sat utterly still at a high-top table, chin resting on her palm, a half-finished cocktail sweating in front of her. Her eyes were distant, glassy, like they hadn't fully caught up with the present.
Across from her, Katie leaned in, eyes wide with fierce best-friend energy. "You are not allowed to mope tonight," she declared, loud enough to rise over the music. "He was a lying, lazy piece of trash. Playing video games, my ass. He was on a date. A date, Amelia!"
Amelia didn't look at her. Her voice came out quiet, almost bored. "I saw him. Hand in hers. Smiling like I never existed."
Katie rolled her eyes, tossing back the last of her drink. "And that's exactly why you did the right thing breaking it off. Babe, come on. You're smart, gorgeous, and you just landed an internship at Winston International. You're about to live your dream while he's stuck in his mother's basement arguing over loot drops."
Amelia cracked a weak smile. "Internships don't pay rent."
Katie smirked. "But they open doors. And men. Hot, tall, emotionally unavailable men in thousand-dollar suits."
That earned a breathy laugh from Amelia. It felt rusty, like a part of her had forgotten how to.
Katie clinked their glasses. "To new beginnings. And men who don't lie about what game they're playing."
"Cheers," Amelia whispered. Then under her breath, "God, I'm so tired."
---
The city felt colder than it should've. Amelia stepped out of the club and onto the pavement, the night breeze biting against her bare arms. Her head spun—not badly, but enough to slow her steps. She just wanted to go home, sink into her couch, and forget that tonight ever happened.
She didn't see the black minivan until it was too late.
Brakes screeched. A horn ripped through the air. The car swerved violently and came to a stop inches from where she stood frozen, heart punching her ribs.
The door flew open.
"Are you out of your mind?"
A man stepped out—tall, sharp-featured, dressed in a pristine white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. His voice was clipped, low, and laced with restrained fury.
Amelia blinked. "Do you not have eyes?"
He stalked toward her, calm and terrifying. "You walked into the road. Drunk. At midnight."
"You almost hit me."
"You almost got yourself killed."
She squinted at him, wobbling slightly. "Stranger danger alert. Aren't you supposed to be less attractive if you're going to scold me like that?"
His lips twitched. "Call someone. You're not making it home like this."
She tilted her head. "Why do you care?"
"Because if you pass out on the street, it becomes my problem."
"I can walk. I live a few blocks away."
He didn't move. Just looked at her. Cold, unreadable.
She stepped forward, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, expensive, overwhelming. "What's your deal?"
"Nothing," he said flatly. "Except I'm deciding whether to leave you here or put you in the car."
She narrowed her eyes. "You want to go straight up to my house, is that it?"
His smirk was sharp enough to cut glass. He stepped in, backing her gently against the side of the van. He didn't touch her—but he didn't have to. The space between them crackled.
He leaned down, voice like silk and steel. "Trust me. You wouldn't be able to take it."
Amelia's breath caught. Her knees wobbled.
She straightened, cheeks flushed. "Shut up. I live just a few blocks away. I can go."
He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe not."
"Are you seriously going to force me?"
"No. But you've got ten seconds to get in the car before I drive off and leave you to flirt with death again."
She stared at him, then muttered, "Asshole," and climbed in.
---
The ride was quiet. Tense. His hands gripped the wheel like he was doing her a favor he didn't plan to repeat.
She gave directions in a mumble, and when the car finally rolled to a stop, she tried to get out. Her legs failed her.
With a sigh, he rounded the vehicle and caught her just in time. "Third floor?"
"Yeah," she muttered.
He helped her up the stairs.
Inside, her apartment was small but warm. A soft couch, string lights across the walls, the faint scent of cinnamon and vanilla hanging in the air. A messy bookshelf stood under the window, stacked with paperbacks and sketchpads.
She dropped her bag and spun slowly, arms out. "Welcome to my humble kingdom."
He stayed at the door, watching her.
"Thanks for the ride," she said, collapsing onto the couch. "I'll remember this when I'm rich and famous and buying penthouses."
He raised a brow.
"I start at Winston International tomorrow," she added, voice full of pride. "Internship. First day."
His expression shifted.
"You're joining Winston?" he asked.
She nodded, eyes fluttering closed. "Gonna be the best intern they've ever seen."
He didn't smile, not exactly—but something flickered in his eyes. A quiet kind of recognition.
"Get some sleep," he said. "You'll need it."
She opened her mouth to ask his name.
But the door was already closing.
Click.
Gone.
Amelia stared at it, blinking slowly.
She hadn't told him her last name.