CHAPTER 1 - DONOVAN’S POV

Seven months. That's how long I'd been showing up at this club, and she hadn't given me anything more than a quick glance in passing. Never agreed to grab drinks after her performance. Never said yes when I suggested champagne in the VIP section. I even offered to buy her the penthouse suite at the Grandview Hotel for the night, hell, I told her I'd buy the entire damn club if that's what it took.

Nothing worked.

She was the only woman in this whole city who acted like I didn't exist, and somehow that just made me obsessed with getting her attention.

Half an hour went by, and her set finished. Way too fast, like always. She took her final bow and headed offstage. I jumped up from my seat, determined to catch her before she disappeared into the dressing rooms like she always did. This time I was going all in with my offer.

I managed to corner her assistant in the narrow hallway backstage. "One billion dollars," I said, keeping my voice calm and direct.

The woman's eyes practically bulged out of her head. "Mr. Donovan..."

"One billion," I said again, just so there was no confusion. "For one private dinner. Just the two of us. No photographers, no press, complete privacy."

The assistant looked torn for a second, and I genuinely thought I might've finally cracked the code. But then her face shifted into that same apologetic expression I'd seen too many times before. "I'm really sorry, sir. She has a strict policy about not meeting anyone privately."

Heat rushed through my chest. "Every single other performer in this building..."

"She's not like the other performers," the assistant cut me off gently.

Right. Sure she wasn't.

I turned and walked out of that club feeling more irritated than I had in years, which is probably why I wasn't paying attention to where the hell I was going.

That's when everything went sideways.

Something fast came out of nowhere, a ringing bell, a flash of motion and then a bicycle crashed straight into my legs.

I stumbled backward, half from the actual impact and half from pure shock. The rider went flying off the bike, got completely tangled up in the frame, and hit the pavement with this pitiful groan like I'd just kicked a puppy or something.

Before I could even process what happened, she scrambled to her feet and came running directly at me. Then, I swear this actually happened, she started brushing dirt off my clothes. My shirt. My pants. My chest. Like she was some kind of deranged cleaning service.

"What are you doing? Get your hands off me." I tried pushing her away, but she just kept coming back, all frantic and muttering something incoherent about dirt and stains.

I knew exactly what this was. I'd seen this act a hundred times before. Women who "accidentally" bump into me at restaurants. Women who "accidentally" spill their drinks on my table. Women who "accidentally" drop their phone numbers into my coat pocket.

This bicycle stunt was just taking it to a whole new pathetic level.

"Did you seriously just run me over on purpose to get my attention?" I snapped at her. "What is wrong with you people? Do any of you have even a shred of self-respect?"

She stopped brushing at my shirt and just froze there, staring up at me. Her helmet sat crooked on her head, these huge ugly oversized glasses were sliding down her nose, and her hair stuck out in all these wild frizzy chunks. Right there above her eyebrow, she had a mole the size of a small grape.

I almost started laughing at how ridiculous she looked.

"I'm not into plain and ugly," I told her flatly.

Her jaw actually dropped open. "Wow. And here I was genuinely worried I might've hurt you. My bad."

"You think I'm buying this accident story?" I shot back. "You definitely saw me leaving that club and thought..."

"Oh yes," she interrupted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "That's exactly what happened. I ride my beat-up bicycle around town every single night, just hoping to crash into random rich guys in expensive suits. Congratulations, you're tonight's lucky victim."

I narrowed my eyes on her. "Watch your tone."

“Watch your massive ego," she fired back. "It's blocking traffic."

The audacity of this woman. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

She gave me this quick dismissive look, completely unimpressed. "Some random guy who thinks the entire world revolves around him because he can afford to breathe?"

I blinked. Nobody talked to me like that. Ever.

"I could have you banned from every establishment in this neighborhood," I warned her.

"Please, go ahead," she said with fake sweetness. "Then I won't have to risk my life dodging your inflated ego on the sidewalk."

I let out an annoyed huff and turned to walk away, but the woman actually swerved her bicycle directly in front of me like she was auditioning for some action movie.

"Move," she said sharply.

I just stood there, stunned. "Wow. So trying to be charming didn't work, and now you're going with insults? Bold strategy. Desperate, but I'll give you points for creativity."

"Why do you automatically assume every woman is dying for your attention?" she snapped. "Do you own a mirror?"

"Yes," I said slowly. "And every single morning, that mirror reminds me I'm basically perfect."

She squinted at me through those hideous oversized glasses. "Of course it does. Delusion loves company."

I looked her up and down, my eyes stopping deliberately on that enormous mole above her eyebrow. "Listen, I'm literally the last person on earth who needs validation from you. Especially since the only reason you're angry right now is because I'm not interested."

She let out this sharp, bitter laugh. "Rejected you? Men like you throw themselves at my feet constantly, and I don't even bother stepping on them."

"Men like me?" I scoffed. "You mean men with working eyesight? Wake up. You're... absolutely not my type." I gestured at her entire situation, the messy hair, the ridiculous outfit, everything. "You're genuinely the least attractive woman I've encountered in recent memory. Why are we even still talking? What bad luck brought us to this moment?"

I started to walk around her. Huge mistake.

She yanked off her helmet and threw it at me. It hit my shoulder not hard enough to actually hurt, just enough to be incredibly annoying. She stood there glaring at me, her hair even messier now, her mouth set in this challenging line.

"Keep walking, Your Majesty," she said, her voice sticky-sweet with sarcasm. "Wouldn't want to damage that fragile ego of yours."

I stared at her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You know what? You should've kept the helmet on. Now I can see your whole face, and honestly, nobody asked for this."

She stepped around me, grabbed her helmet off the ground, and climbed back on her bike.

As she started pedaling away, she called back over her shoulder, "And just so we're clear? You're not my type either."

I stood there on the sidewalk, completely stunned.

Not her type?

People had called me a lot of things over the years. "Too handsome to trust." "Dangerously charming." "A perfect ten with a bank account to match." But in my entire twenty-seven years of existence, not once had a woman looked me in the eye and told me I wasn't her type.

God, if this was my future wife, I'd genuinely rather be alone forever.

What a ridiculous thought. What a joke.