Lucky in Love

“Karen, the world out there is cruel, dear. People are dishonest. Don’t trust anyone and protect your heart.”

That was the advice Karen received from Mrs. Malcolm six months ago when she left Saint Mary’s orphanage.

But she was sure it was just the exaggerated concern of a bitter old woman, because her life, after all, seemed like a fairy tale.

Karen got a job at a large hotel chain in Las Vegas, and that night she was going to have dinner with Peter Sterling—a rich, handsome, and attentive heir who made her feel special.

Peter treated her with a kindness she had never known before. He sent flowers to her work, reminded her when it was time to eat, and told her it was “love at first sight.”

She believed him. She wanted to believe him.

While waiting for the elevator, Karen smoothed out the simple dress she had bought with her first paycheck. Her hands trembled slightly; her heart beat too fast.

That night would be perfect—she was sure he would ask her to be his girlfriend. Maybe even get engaged.

She gave up waiting for the elevator and decided to take the stairs; it would be faster.

“Just a few floors,” she murmured.

Her heart felt light. Everything finally seemed to be going right, but on the third floor, a familiar voice echoed through the stairwell.

“That idiot Karen is late. I said eight o’clock, and it’s already ten past. I hate waiting.”

She stopped. The sound of the words seemed to make no sense. Peter was kind. Peter loved her.

“I don’t feel anything for her, but you need the kidney, Lindsay. The medical team is already here. Just a few more days and everything will be settled.”

The world shattered into a million pieces. Karen couldn’t breathe.

“She’s an ignorant, disgusting orphan. Nothing about her attracts me.”

Karen took a step back and bumped into a decorative statue. The noise echoed like a gunshot.

Silence.

“Is anyone there?” Peter’s voice sounded alert.

Panic exploded in her chest. The air seemed to disappear. She turned and ran down the stairs, her heels pounding the floor like drums announcing her escape.

“Karen? Stop!” Peter shouted.

She didn’t stop. The tears came uncontrollably. The salty taste burned in her mouth.

“Karen, wait! Let me explain! It’s not what it looks like; it’s just a joke!”

Karen was ashamed and wanted to hide. She went down to the basement where her car was parked and ran between the luxury vehicles, her heart pounding in her chest.

Idiot. Idiot.

Mrs. Malcolm’s voice echoed in her mind: People are dishonest.

“Karen, let’s talk!” Peter demanded angrily.

He picked up the phone. “Security, close all the exits, don’t let Karen leave!”

She hid between the cars and heard Peter’s hurried footsteps approaching. The sound of his shoes echoed like a warning.

A car was parked with the engine running. Karen didn’t think twice. She opened the back door and dove inside, slamming the door behind her.

But within seconds, a cold, angry voice cut through the air.

“Get out of my car.”

The tone was low, controlled—and dangerously calm.

Karen looked up. A man was sitting next to her, laptop open on his lap. His gray eyes stared at her with a mixture of disbelief and fury.

He was brutally handsome—defined jawline, perfectly combed black hair, a suit that probably cost more than six months of her salary, and an aura of power.

The intrusion visibly irritated him. His jaw was clenched, his long fingers tapping on the laptop keyboard, as if trying to contain his own impatience.

“I need help,” she pleaded.

“I don’t care.”

His voice was bitter, almost bored. There was no room for empathy there, only control.

“Please help me... that man wants to—”

“Did you cheat at the games?” he interrupted her without even looking up, as if he were used to hearing excuses from desperate people.

Karen blinked, confused.

 “No! That man wants my kidney!”

The sound of her words seemed to hang in the air, grotesque, too absurd to be true. He finally looked up—and for the first time, his gray eyes met hers.

There was no pity there. Only calculation. Assessment.

For a second, he looked as if he was about to respond, but something stopped him. His gaze drifted down to Karen’s wrist, where the fabric of her dress had ridden up slightly.

A small tattoo, almost faded by time: 125478 SM.

The mark of the orphanage.

His fingers moved slowly, as if the sight of it had pierced a layer of ice he had kept for years.

“SM...” he murmured, more to himself than to her. His expression changed—irritation gave way to something darker, more tense. Memories.

Karen didn’t understand. She tried to back away, but his gaze held her captive.

“Why do you have that tattoo?” His voice was low now, charged with something new.

“I.… grew up at Saint Mary’s. I left six months ago,” she replied.

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment Karen thought he was going to say something—but the sound of hurried footsteps echoed from outside.

It was Peter.

Sebastian’s expression changed. In an instant, his indecision vanished, replaced by a sharp authority.

“Girl, stay down,” he ordered.

Karen hesitated, but before she could react, his hand landed on the back of her neck—firm, warm, dominant. He gently pushed her down, hiding her.

The mysterious man’s touch was warm, and there was something about him that made Karen’s heart race for a reason that had nothing to do with fear.

Knocks on the window. Dry. Urgent.

The man lowered the window just a few inches.

“Sebastian?” Peter’s voice sounded surprised, almost tremulous. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to talk to Leonel.”

Outside, Peter was panting. Sweat ran down his temple; his suit was rumpled. The elegant composure of an heir had disappeared.

“Have you seen a girl? Blue dress, brown hair?”

Karen held her breath. Her whole body was curled up against the leather seat, her face pressed against the cold seat. The smell of leather mixed with Sebastian’s expensive perfume surrounded her, suffocating her.

“No,” he replied curtly.

“She came this way, I’m sure—”

Sebastian turned his face slowly, his gray eyes meeting Peter’s through the crack in the glass. The silence stretched on for minutes.

“I didn’t see anyone. And I’m busy.”

The way he said busy left no room for reply. It was a warning. A clean cut.

Karen could hear the sound of her heart pounding inside the car—or maybe it was his, impossible to tell.

Outside, Peter hesitated, and for the first time, he sounded small.

“If you see her...”

“I won’t see her.” Sebastian interrupted, his voice low but laden with authority. “Now get out of the way of my car.”

The window rolled up with a final click.

Karen remained motionless, her eyes fixed on the line of his jacket, her breath caught in her throat. Outside, Peter’s footsteps receded—quick, reluctant, and then... silence.

Inside the car, the air felt different. Thicker.

Sebastian dropped the laptop and leaned back in his seat, finally allowing himself to breathe.

“Drive,” he said to the driver.

Then he turned his face toward her, his gaze cold and angry. The pause that followed was more threatening than a scream.

“Now tell me... who are you, girl?”

“My name is Karen, and I’m... the hotel maid. I thought you were going to ask me out.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, not hiding his disdain.

 “For Peter?”

“Do you two know each other?” Karen asked.

Sebastian looked at her and smiled sarcastically.

“We’re siblings.”

The blood drained from Karen’s face. She couldn’t believe her bad luck.

“No... this can’t be... Let me out.”

She tried to open the door, but Sebastian was quicker. His hand grabbed her wrist firmly—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to keep her from moving.

“If you were close to Peter,” he said in a low, controlled voice, “you must know that we hate each other. He calls me...”

“Bastard,” Karen whispered, her voice trembling.

Sebastian’s gaze fixed on her. Cold. Penetrating. Almost curious—as if he were seeing an old reflection of himself.

Sebastian released her wrist, but the silence between them grew heavier. Slowly, he pulled up his shirtsleeve. On his forearm, a tattooed number, worn by time: 385900 SM.

Karen felt her stomach churn. The same mark. The same past she was trying to forget.

“There’s a reason your boyfriend calls me a bastard,” he said, without emotion.

But there was something broken behind his voice—an ancient shadow, almost imperceptible.

The car fell silent. Outside, the city glowed with neon lights, indifferent.