2

North’s POV

Jeremy chuckled and turned toward the road. Right on cue, a black SUV rolled to a smooth stop in front of us. “You first,” he said, bowing with exaggerated flair.

I clenched my fists at my sides, eyes flicking around to see if anyone was paying attention before stepping into a stranger’s car.

We had barely driven a minute when Jeremy handed me a single document and a ballpoint pen. He did not even look at me. “You are a law student,” he said. “I don’t think I need to explain anything.”

Right. I was a law student. Top of my class, if I allowed myself that small vanity. Proof that intelligence without money was just wordplay.

I read the document carefully. A standard non-disclosure agreement. Nothing dramatic on the surface. Names of the parties, duration, obligations, and remedies for breach. Clean. Efficient. Too efficient.

Only one thing stood out.

The agreement listed the counterparty simply as Mr. Crowe, with no corporate entity, no government-issued identifier, no address, and no signature witness tied to a verifiable legal person. From a litigation standpoint, enforcement would be difficult. Anyone could claim to be Mr. Crowe. More importantly, I could later argue ambiguity of identity, especially if performance or liability ever became disputed. The contract protected his secrecy, but it also weakened his ability to bind me to a specific individual beyond a reasonable doubt.

A gap. Not a fatal one, but enough.

I signed without hesitation.

“What now?” I asked, handing the document back to Jeremy.

He was scrolling through his phone when mine vibrated almost immediately.

$10,000.

Transferred by Jerome Simone.

I glanced at him. So that was his real name.

I kept my face neutral, but inside, my chest felt too tight. It had been years since I had seen that kind of money in my account, well, at least one that belonged to me and wasn’t to pay some bills. Still, my thoughts went straight to my mother and my siblings. It would not cover everything, not even half of it, but it could keep the lights on, buy groceries, and breathe for a while.

I transferred $9,000 to my mother and kept $1,000 for emergencies.

Her call came instantly.

“Mae,” I said, but the phone was snatched from my hand before I could finish the word.

Jeremy ended the call and slipped my phone into his pocket.

“What the hell, man,” I snapped.

He raised the document. “You signed. Remember?”

“No shit, Sherlock. Do you seriously think I was about to tell my mother I am on my way to fuck some billionaire for cash?”

“I don’t know, buddy,” he shrugged, “I am not your brother. I am just doing my job.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. “We are close. Fix your looks or whatever you pretty boys do.”

Pretty boys.

I hated that term. It always felt like an insult, even when people claimed it was a compliment. No matter how hard I tried to look rougher, tougher, more traditionally masculine, the label followed me. Pretty. Soft. Questionable.

And now I did not even know what I was supposed to fix.

My clothes were wrinkled, worn for days, because we were barely paying electricity bills. I had not washed my hair in four days. I did not own cologne. I probably smelled like stress and soap that ran out too early.

If this man had standards, I had already failed them.

As the car passed through tall iron gates and curved into a private estate, I could not stop staring.

The villa unfolded slowly, deliberately. Clean white stone, sharp modern lines softened by warm lighting. Palm trees lined the drive, their shadows stretching across perfectly manicured grass. Water features reflected the house like glass, and floor-to-ceiling windows glowed faintly from within. Everything about the place whispered controlled wealth, not loud, not gaudy, just absolute certainty. So yeah, I was dealing with an actual rich guy.

“Get down,” Jeremy commanded when the car stopped in front of an ivory colored mansion. “He is waiting for you.”

My throat tightened as I obeyed wordlessly.

The car pulled away immediately.

Too fast.

I stood there alone, fingers curling around the strap of my bag, heart pounding as I stared at the massive front door. I knew Jeremy would leave eventually, but I had not expected him to abandon me at the threshold.

This was it.

I had said I would eat shit for money. This was me keeping my word.

The door was modern, digital, and unlocked. That somehow made it worse.

I stepped inside.

The first thing I saw was the staircase. A white spiral rising through the center of the space like a sculpture. My gaze followed it upward, and then I saw him.

He stood at the top, dressed in a silk, black robe, a wine glass resting in his left hand. His eyes were fixed on me, sharp and assessing, his expression completely blank.

My heart stopped.

I finally understood what Jeremy meant when he said, you know my boss.

Everyone knew this man.

On this continent, power had a face.

Lucien Crowe.

Fourth-generation billionaire. Political kingmaker. A man whose name alone bent rooms into silence. Friends with presidents. Untouchable.

And he was watching me. 

His eyes never left me as I climbed the stairs. Not even for a second. With every step closer, the pressure of his gaze tightened around my chest, fear settling deeper into my bones. Up close, his eye color finally became clear. Hazel. Sharp. Cold. The kind of eyes that looked like they had never learned how to soften.

His features were unmistakably Italian, leaving little room for his Russian side. Strong, sculpted bone structure. A straight, elegant nose. High cheekbones that gave his face a severe beauty, balanced by a mouth that looked too sensual for how little emotion he showed. His chestnut hair was neatly styled, glossy and deliberate, a cruel contrast to my own, which had not seen shampoo in days.

I hated myself for noticing.

I hated myself even more for the way my heart skipped when I did.

This was a man I had only ever seen on screens. News interviews. Business magazines. Carefully edited photographs where he always looked untouchable. Lucien Crowe was a billionaire heartthrob for a reason. The only billionaire with entire online fandoms dedicated to him, thirst trap edits circulating like currency, women losing their minds over a man who never even looked into the camera.

If only they knew.

I didn’t know what to do. What to say. How to say anything at all. The closer I got, the worse it became. He was taller than I expected. Broad-shouldered. Solid. His presence filled the space without effort, like the house itself had been built to accommodate him. Under his scrutiny, I felt exposed, stripped down to every flaw, every insecurity.

My gaze betrayed me, dropping before I could stop it. The open collar of his robe revealed a sculpted chest, smooth skin interrupted by a dark trail of hair disappearing beneath the fabric. I swallowed hard and forced my eyes back up, shame burning hot in my face.

“I…”

The word barely formed.

I finally opened my mouth, driven by the unbearable need to say something, anything, just to prove I still existed under his gaze.

But before another sound could leave me, he turned.

Without a word, without a glance back, Lucien Crowe walked away, leaving me standing there alone at the top of the staircase, heart racing, dignity in pieces, and the terrifying certainty that this was only the beginning.