HIS TO RUIN

SELENE.

On the day before our anniversary, I found a note from my boyfriend that laid on the coffee table.

[Selene, I have to go. I can’t explain everything now. Please forgive me. Don’t wait for me.]

Two words: Don't wait.

That was all. No explanation, no goodbye, no reason I could understand. Just the hollow, cruel reminder that even the brightest love can disappear without warning.

For two years, my life with Ezra was a collection of moments like this—carefree, tender, and full of promises that felt eternal. Weekends spent wandering through bookshops, mornings drinking coffee on his balcony, nights wrapped around each other under tangled sheets and city lights. We had dreams, plans, whispers of forever that I thought were unshakable.

And then… he vanished.

What a jerk I was for believing in his nonsense.

That day, my heart shattered. I didn't know how to feel. I had forgotten about a world where Ezra didn't exist in it. I had even forgotten about my life before he came into the picture. But in a split second, everything was shattered? Like an illusion?

“What did I do that was so wrong?" Was the anthem I sang for weeks. Replaying every shared moment in my head, looking for the reason that made him drop the ball on me. I didn't find any.

For weeks, I clung to the memory of those sunlit rooftops and coffee-stained mornings, hoping the warmth of him would fill the cold emptiness left behind. But reality was relentless. Rent still had to be paid. Bills piled higher than my heartbreak. Survival didn’t care about love lost.

That’s when I discovered the other life. My life as an escort. The nights when I could transform the desperation into power.

By day, I was Selene Hart, struggling writer scraping by on borrowed time and borrowed words. By night, I became someone untouchable, someone desired, someone who could bend wealth and attention to keep her family afloat.

The transition wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. My heart still ached, yes, but the ache became fuel, a reminder that I could survive anything.

Now, as I adjusted my heels and approached the massive glass doors of the Aurelius Grand Hotel, the memory of Ezra—the laughter, the warmth, the promise of forever—flickered behind my eyes like a candle in the wind.

It made me ache in a way I hadn’t felt in years, but it also reminded me why I couldn’t stop. Why I had to keep going. Why I had to be Selene Hart, the woman who could survive, fight, and carve out her own destiny, even in a world that kept taking everything from her.

“Another day to live a life I don't want," I muttered to myself as the massive building stood before me. I literally had to brace myself for impact.

I walked into the Aurelius Grand Hotel with the kind of confidence people wear like perfume—light, artificial, and meant to fool anyone who looked too closely. My heels clicked against the gleaming marble floor, echoing through the cathedral-high lobby like a pendulum counting down to a version of myself I still wasn’t used to being.

Golden chandeliers glittered overhead, casting tiny dots that looked an awful lot like constellations across the polished surfaces, and every inch of the place screamed luxury in a language I didn’t speak.

“This is just another job,” I whispered to myself, tightening my grip on the small clutch bag that held my phone, lipstick, and dignity—though the last one had been running dangerously low these days. “One night. One man. One paycheck. There's no need to second guess myself.”

A paycheck that would barely chip away at my debts, but at least it would keep the wolves at bay a little longer.

My chest rose, fell, and I forced my breath into something steady. I wasn’t here to dream; I was here to survive.

Dreams were for fucking believers who had something to look forward to. I didn't. At least, not for now anyways.

The elevator dinged softly. The polished metal doors slid open like an invitation I wasn’t sure I deserved. I stepped inside, pressed the button for the penthouse, and caught my reflection in the mirrored walls.

Red lips. Fake confidence. Eyes that told a story I hoped no one would bother to read.

“Get through the night,” I muttered. “Then figure out everything else tomorrow.”

The elevator hummed upward, floor by floor, carrying me toward a stranger who could afford me for one night. I’d met dozens—men who wanted to pretend they weren’t lonely or broken or drowning in their own secrets. I’d perfected the smile, the voice, the way to tilt my head like I was interested. It wasn’t romance; it was a role. A performance for survival.

But tonight felt… different. A prickle of uncertainty crawled along the back of my neck as though fate was playing with the dimmer switch of my future.

When the elevator halted, my stomach dropped. The knot in my stomach tightened. The doors opened to a quiet hallway with plush carpeting so soft it felt like stepping onto a cloud. My pulse raced. I told myself nerves were normal. I told myself I’d done this before.

I lied.

I walked toward the penthouse door, lifted a hand, and knocked.

The door opened almost instantly.

And the air left my lungs.

And there he was—Damien Cross.

I gotta say, if I didn't watch the TV sometimes and had seen him once or twice, I would never have believed he was the one.

I probably would have jabbed myself twice.

But there he was. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Sharp-jawed. The kind of handsome that didn’t look real, almost like someone had carved him from every disastrous decision a woman could make. His dark eyes were the worst part—intense, deliberate, and so focused on me that my polished smile faltered before it could even form.

He didn’t speak. He just watched me, as if he were evaluating every breath I took.

“Hi,” I managed, my voice thinning. “I’m—”

“Come in.” He moved aside but didn’t break eye contact.

I stepped into the penthouse, trying to ignore how the suite looked more like a billionaire’s playground than a room. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the entire city glittering below, lights flickering like restless fireflies. Everything smelled faintly of sandalwood, expensive whiskey, and something darker—something undeniably him.

The door clicked shut behind me.

I swallowed.

“Beautiful view,” I said, because small talk was supposed to help.

“It is,” he replied, but his gaze wasn’t on the skyline. It was on me.

Heat prickled beneath my skin. I’d dealt with powerful men before, but Damien’s presence felt different—not loud, not arrogant, but controlled. Like he didn’t need to dominate the room; the room simply understood who owned it.

“You’re nervous,” he observed calmly.

I almost scoffed. “That obvious?”

“You’re trying very hard not to show it.”

I laughed under my breath. “You hired me for a night, not therapy.”

He stepped closer, not enough to touch but enough for his presence to wrap around me like a hand at my spine. “What’s your name?” he asked.

I blinked. “You already know my work name. That should be enough.”

“Your real name,” he said. “I don’t want the version you give clients. I want you.”

My throat tightened. “That’s not how this usually works.”

“I’m not asking how it usually works,” he said softly, yet with a command threaded through each word. “I asked for your name.”

I shouldn’t have told him. I shouldn’t have felt cornered by honesty when lies were safer. But his voice tore through my defenses like quiet thunder. Like I was under a fucking spell.

“Selene,” I whispered.

His expression shifted, interest sharpening into something dangerously close to fascination.

“Selene,” he repeated, almost tasting the syllables. “Doesn’t that feel better than pretending?”

My pulse thudded. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. This is still a transaction.”

“Is it?” His eyebrow lifted. “I haven’t handed you anything yet.”

That surprised me. Men like him didn’t hesitate.

“Then why invite me here?” I asked.

His eyes raked over me—slow, unrushed, like he was memorizing. “Because I wanted to see if you were what your file suggested.”

I stiffened. “My… file? What the hell does that mean?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I look into the people I allow near me.”

My breath caught. That wasn’t normal. That was unsettling. “Wait, hold on a second. You vetted me?”

“Of course.” He walked toward the bar, poured himself whiskey, then glanced back at me. “I don’t take chances.”

“And what did my ‘file’ say?” I asked, voice cracking with equal parts irritation and fear.

“That you’re desperate,” he answered bluntly. “But not broken.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “That’s—”

“True,” he said. “And that’s what makes you interesting.”

I wanted to be offended. I wanted to turn around and leave. But desperation had hands, and they were around my throat, reminding me why I was here.

“You don’t get to analyze me,” I murmured, feeling my mask slipping. “That sucks."

“I already did,” he replied.

My heart hammered. “Look, if you just want to get things started, we can—”

“No.” His voice cut through the space like a blade. “I want the truth first.”

“What truth?”

“Why you’re really here.”

I laughed—short, sharp, and tired. “Money. That’s the whole truth. Money is always the truth. Or isn't that enough truth for you?”

Damien walked toward me again, his steps slow and deliberate. His gaze didn’t waver. “Money brings a lot of people to a lot of places. But there’s more. Pain. Fear. A need to escape. A need to feel wanted. Which is it for you?”

“Stop,” I said, breath shaking. “You don’t know me.”

“Not yet.”

The air tightened. I could feel it pressing against my ribs, making each inhale a negotiation.

“Look,” I whispered, “I’m just trying to get through my life without drowning. That’s all. You don't need to psychoanalyze me to know that.”

His eyes softened—barely, but enough to feel like a crack splitting open stone. “Good,” he murmured. “Honesty suits you.”

I exhaled shakily. “Are we done with the interrogation?”

“Not quite,” he said, but his tone had dropped into something deeper. Warmer. More dangerous. “Come closer.”

My feet moved before my mind agreed. I hated that. Damn it.

When I reached him, Damien lifted a single hand—slowly, deliberately—until his knuckles brushed the line of my jaw. The touch was feather-light, but it set off an electric rush under my skin.

My breath hitched. “Damien…”

“You’re not like the others,” he said, his voice dipping low enough to send a tremor down my spine. His thumb traced my jaw as though he’d already claimed it. “And I don’t intend to treat you like them.”

I swallowed hard, heartbeat thundering against my ribs. “This was supposed to be one night. Why can't you let it be just that?”

He leaned in, lips grazing my ear.

“Selene,” he whispered, “you’ll be mine for more than one night.”

My entire body froze.

Because for the first time tonight, I believed him.

And that terrified the fuck out of me.