Thunder roared across the sky, rattling the heavens.
Clara's slender fingers tightened around the colored wine bottle placed at the café entrance as a mere ornament. She prayed she was imagining things. Yet when two bleached-haired thugs swaggered toward her and one reached out to touch her face, a sheen of sweat dampened her palm. Her knuckles whitened, bones pressing sharp against her skin, as she gripped the glass with desperate force—determined that if she swung, she would not let it slip from her grasp.
Just as she steeled herself to smash the bottle against the man's head, her wrist was seized in a firm hold.
A low, unhurried voice sounded behind her.
"That won't kill anyone like that."
She spun around, only to be ensnared by a pair of obsidian eyes.
A high-necked black shirt clung to a pale, chiseled face, rainwater dripping from the lock of hair plastered across his sharp brow, unveiling a gaze as dark and fathomless as a storm-lit abyss.
Clara's heart stumbled.
Adrian Whitmore.
[Wait, what? Where had he appeared from?]
[No, no—this was the male lead, unwilling to leave the rival unprotected, sending his friend to fetch her.]
[What? Our poor heroine sprained her ankle, and he's still thinking of another woman? Oh, just wait until the heartbreak comes!]
[We thought she'd be bullied, but apparently not. Don't worry—the damsel-in-distress scene will be more convincing this way. The two men are underground fighters. Lucas Vane is a wealthy heir, trained since childhood in karate and Muay Thai. Adrian, on the other hand, a poor boy—he can't possibly take them.]
Clara, seeing the spoilers, let her hopes sink. Underground fighters cared little for their lives.
"You can't win against them," she whispered, unwilling to drag a stranger into her plight. "Run. Call the police."
"I can't win?" Adrian arched a brow. "You're sure?"
Clara faltered. Of all times, does he really want to argue semantics?
"You… you make your living with your face. If you're scarred, I… I couldn't afford to pay you back."
The two thugs burst into laughter, baring yellowed teeth.
"So he's just a pretty boy, huh? Neither of you are going anywhere."
Clara's nerves wound tighter and tighter, while behind her Adrian's lazy murmur brushed her ear.
"Let me show you how to actually kill."
Before she could react, her arm was yanked forward by his strength. A sharp crack tore through the night—the bottle shattered, shards glinting as lightning split the sky. Rain mixed with blood, trickling down the thug's face in serpentine streams.
The man stood stunned, not even seeing when Adrian had moved.
"Next time," Adrian said coldly, "aim here." His tone carried faint disappointment. "Shame it was empty."
The two men bolted in panic, only for Adrian to drag them back into the alley. Their cries of agony, muffled by thunder and rain, eventually faded.
At last, Adrian emerged with long strides. "I'm hurt."
Clara's pulse raced. When she saw the wound, she exhaled. Just a shallow cut on his fingertip, courtesy of flying shards.
"It's nothing. It'll heal soon."
"That won't do." Adrian bent closer, obsidian eyes gleaming with mischief, lips curving. "I sell my looks. If it scars, how will I earn?"
Clara swallowed. "Then… let me take you to a hospital."
"No hospital."
"Where then?"
"Anywhere."
Clara hesitated. He had saved her—she couldn't turn him away. "Then… my place. I've got antiseptic, but—" She glanced down at her ride-hailing app. Still no cars nearby.
Adrian's gaze fell on the destination marked on her phone. "You live at River View Residences?" Hands tucked into his pockets, he said simply, "Come. I'll drive you."
Clara blinked, scanning the deserted road. A single black sedan idled across the street.
"Your car?"
At her words, the sedan turned, pulling smoothly to a stop before them. Without the veil of rain, its elegant curves gleamed, the unmistakable badge declaring its pedigree. A Rolls-Royce Phantom.
Clara froze, staring at the luxury car and then back at Adrian.
Hadn't there been rumors of him scraping meals from the cheapest cafeteria line? Hadn't Lucas Vane himself confirmed it? Wasn't Adrian known as the "penniless prince" despite his campus-heartthrob title?
And yet, here he reclined against the leather seat, starlit ceiling casting a galaxy above him, the universe itself seeming no more than a backdrop to his existence.
"Not getting in?" His dark eyes lifted, luminous and commanding.
Clara's voice caught. "This… this is your car?"
Adrian's lips tilted in a mocking smile. "Jealous? Bodies can buy anything."
Shock swept through her. Was being a gigolo truly that lucrative?
Dazed, Clara climbed in. The Phantom glided toward River View Residences—the very marital home arranged for her and her absent fiancé, Lucas Vane.
Inside the elevator, Clara sent her brother a message.
Clara: Brother, can you tell me Mother's nursing home address?
Brother: If you can get Lucas to move back into the apartment, I'll tell you.
Her heart sank. Lucas would rather crowd in a dorm than share a roof with her.
Her gaze flicked to Adrian's tall frame reflected in the elevator's mirror. From behind, his silhouette resembled Lucas almost exactly.
An idea sparked. She snapped a photo of Adrian's back, sending it off.
Clara: He's back.
Unaware of her scheme, Adrian stepped inside. His eyes swept over the apartment—the men's shoes by the door, a jacket on the balcony. He raised a brow. "You live alone?"
"More or less," she hedged. "My fiancé comes by sometimes."
Adrian only murmured, "Careful."
Then, without warning, he began unbuttoning his shirt, pale collarbones catching the light.
Clara's eyes widened. "Why are you undressing?"
"I'm soaked." He said it matter-of-factly, bare chest rising and falling before her. "Where's the shower?"
"You—you're bathing here? In my home?"
"Yes. If I fall ill, I can't work. Or will you sponsor me?"
The mention of money jolted her back. She shook her head quickly. "Guest bathroom's near the door. I'll fetch some clothes."
She turned, only for her wrist to be caught once again in his warm grasp.
"Together?"
The single word seared through her like boiling water.
Danger. Danger. Danger.
Clara remembered the whispers at school—the highborn girls lining up to court him, the countless confessions broadcast on campus forums. He had always stood untouchable, the flower on the highest peak.
And yet now she saw: the flower bloomed not cold, but wild.
"No need," she stammered.
But Adrian's dark gaze lingered, lips quirking. "Didn't you keep saying you wanted to sleep with me?"
Her mind spun. Aside from the drugged slip of her tongue last night, when had she ever said such a thing?
This man was dangerous. A seducer. A devourer.
And Clara, steady and honest, could not afford to be caught.