Prologue

Roman Carrington had one strict rule: never spend more than one night with the same woman.

It was a good rule. It kept his life clean, unentangled, and uncomplicated. It had survived tabloid scandals, greedy social climbers, and every beautiful woman who mistook his bank account for a personality. One night, one goodbye, no promises, no repeat performances.

He was never wrong about people.

Until Friday night at The Obsidian, when a woman in a red dress downed three shots of tequila at the bar and didn't give him a second glance.

He’d noticed her the second she walked in. He knew the Ashford family, he’d been dodging their desperate attempts to secure a meeting with Carrington Corporation for months. Sophia Ashford, in particular, had spent the last few months hunting him at every high-society event.

So when the Ashfords walked into the club, Roman almost left. Then he saw her.

She sat near the edge of their VIP booth, staring at the couple across the table like she was watching her own heart get torn apart in real time. He didn't know her name, but he noticed two things: the red dress that barely covered her hips, and the way her face went completely blank when the man at the table pulled another woman into a kiss.

Roman knew that face. He’d worn it once, a long time ago, in a life he never talked about.

She got up, walked to the bar, and ordered three shots of tequila as if trying to be brave.

Roman told himself to walk away. He had a board meeting the next morning. He wasn't in the business of saving heartbroken girls in tight red dresses.

He bought her a drink anyway.

She called him a weirdo.

He sat down beside her, waiting for the sudden shift, the gasp of recognition, the sudden flirtatious smile once she realized who he was. It never came. She looked at him like he was nothing more than an inconvenience.

“You’ve been playing by the rules your whole life, haven't you?” he’d asked her, leaning in close. “How has that worked out for you?”

He’d meant it as a throwaway line, but something cracked behind her eyes. For a second, he saw the dangerous resolve take over.

“Take me out of here,” she said.

He should have put her in an Uber and sent her home alone. That was the smart move. That was the Roman Carrington move, the one that kept him untouched and in control.

Instead, he took her hand and led her out the side exit.

The next morning, Roman woke up to a quiet apartment, an empty bed, and his black shirt missing.

He lay on his back for a long time, staring at the ceiling in the morning light.

She hadn't left a note. She hadn't tried to take a photo or slip a business card out of his jacket. She’d taken his shirt, walked out his door, and left him lying alone in his own bed.

Roman sat up, running a hand through his dark hair, and let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh.

*Well,* he thought. *That's new.*

He couldn't get her out of his head all week. Every board meeting, every phone call, every evening in his penthouse was haunted by the memory of her brown eyes, her tight grip against his back, and her ragged whisper asking him to make her forget.

By Monday afternoon, he’d called his private investigator.

By Wednesday morning, a folder was sitting on his mahogany desk.

He flipped it open, staring down at her photo.

**Kaia Sinclair.**

No money. No powerful family. Just a quiet girl carrying Sophia Ashford’s bags and pining over Liam Ashford, a man who didn't deserve her time of day.

Roman leaned back in his leather chair, a dangerous smirk spreading across his lips. His parents were demanding he bring a respectable woman to prove he was finally ready to settle down.

Kaia Sinclair needed a way to hold her head high. Roman Carrington needed a woman who didn't care about his fortune.

He closed the file with a soft thud.

"See you soon, Kaia Sinclair." He didn't say it like a promise. He said it like a fact.