The night I said yes, I knew I was walking into something dangerous.
It started with a text. One line. Come out with me tonight.
No name attached, but I knew who it was.
He had this way of inserting himself into my life like I'd been waiting for him all along. The guy from the penthouse, the boy everyone whispered about, the one I kept pretending not to notice even when my body betrayed me and my eyes lingered longer than they should.
I stared at the message until my phone dimmed. My chest buzzed with something between nerves and excitement. My thumb hovered over the screen, ready to type no, ready to remind myself that I had finals in two weeks, that I didn't belong in his world of fast cars, high ceilings, and glowing bottles.
Instead, I typed one word: Okay.
And just like that, everything shifted.
....
The car pulled up outside the library twenty minutes later, black and polished like it belonged in a movie. I didn't expect him to be the one behind the wheel, but there he was—leaning over the console, grinning at me through tinted glass.
"Get in," he said, as if we'd done this a hundred times before.
I should've walked away. I should've kept my head down and gone back inside, buried myself in case law until I forgot the way his voice made me shiver. But my feet had other plans.
I opened the door. The leather smelled like money and smoke. The city lights bounced off the windshield as we slipped into traffic. He drove fast, but not reckless, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming against his thigh.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"You'll see." He smirked like secrets were currency and he was filthy rich.
We ended up at a hotel I'd only ever seen from the outside, the kind of place with gold revolving doors and doormen in suits sharper than knives. My stomach clenched as I stepped onto the marble floor. I was still wearing my worn-out sneakers and hoodie from a twelve-hour study session. I didn't belong here. Everyone could see it.
But he didn't care. He took my hand, casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and led me through the lobby. His palm was warm, steady, grounding me even as my head spun.
We took the elevator to the top floor. The numbers climbed higher, my pulse keeping pace. When the doors opened, we stepped into a private lounge lit with soft blue light and lined with glass walls. The city stretched beneath us, endless and alive.
"Wow," I whispered before I could stop myself.
He leaned against the railing, watching me instead of the skyline. "Better than the library?"
I shot him a look. "I was working."
"You were hiding," he corrected. "You always look like you're running from something."
His words hit harder than they should have. I didn't answer.
A waiter appeared out of nowhere with a bottle already uncorked. Champagne. Of course. He poured two glasses without asking. The bubbles caught the light like stars in water. I wrapped my fingers around the stem but didn't drink.
"You're not twenty-one yet, are you?" he teased.
"I am." I hesitated, then added, "Barely."
"Good. Then you're out of excuses."
I took a sip, bitter and sweet all at once. The fizz rushed up my nose, making my eyes water. He laughed when I winced, not unkind, more like he liked watching me react to things he'd seen a thousand times.
We sat by the glass, the city sprawled beneath our feet. He talked about nothing and everything—the ridiculous things his friends had done last week, the cars he wanted to buy, the professors he couldn't stand. I should've been bored, but his words carried weight, like he was daring me to challenge him.
And I did. I argued, rolled my eyes, pushed back when he tried to show off. It felt good, like sparring with someone who wasn't afraid to hit back.
At some point, he leaned closer. His arm brushed mine, and I felt heat spread through me, sharp and undeniable.
"Why'd you say yes?" he asked softly.
The question caught me off guard. "I don't know."
"Sure you do." His eyes locked on mine, too steady, too sharp.
I swallowed hard. "Maybe I wanted to see if you're as reckless as everyone says."
He smirked, but there was something tired behind it. "And? What's the verdict?"
"Jury's still out," I said, though my voice cracked a little.
....
Hours passed like minutes. We laughed, argued, sat in silence that wasn't uncomfortable. It scared me how easy it was. With him, I wasn't the orphan girl hiding behind textbooks. I wasn't the foster kid who couldn't figure out if she was grateful or resentful. I was just… me. And for once, that felt enough.
When the clock on my phone blinked past midnight, I stood reluctantly. "I should go."
"Stay a little longer." His tone was casual, but his eyes weren't.
"I can't. I've got class tomorrow."
"You always have class tomorrow." He stood too, closing the space between us. His height swallowed me whole, his cologne wrapping around my lungs until I almost forgot how to breathe.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope. Plain, white, nothing special. He held it out to me like it was priceless.
"What's this?" I asked.
"An invitation," he said simply.
I frowned. "To what?"
"You'll see."
"Why are you always so damn vague?"
"Because if I told you everything, you wouldn't come."
He pressed the envelope into my palm and curled my fingers around it. His touch lingered, too deliberate. "Be there. Saturday night. Don't make me regret choosing you."
I stared at him, my heart slamming against my ribs. "Choosing me for what?"
"You'll find out." His smile was sharp, but his eyes softened just for a moment. Then he turned away, leaving me to drown in questions.
The ride home was quiet. He didn't push me to talk, and I didn't ask where his mind had gone. My fingers never loosened from the envelope. It felt heavier than paper should, like it carried a weight I wasn't ready for.
When he dropped me off outside the foster house, I hesitated before getting out. "Why me?" I asked finally.
He leaned back in his seat, shadows cutting across his face. "Because you don't want anything from me."
"That's not true."
"No?" His lips curved. "Then what do you want?"
The answer caught in my throat. I couldn't say it, not then. Maybe not ever.
So I slammed the door before he could push me harder.
That night, alone in my room, I tore the envelope open. Inside was a single card. Black. Elegant. My name written across it in silver.
No address, no details. Just three words at the bottom: Saturday. Nine o'clock.
I stared at it until my vision blurred. My gut twisted with warning, but beneath that, something else stirred—curiosity, hunger, maybe even hope.
I knew I should burn it. Pretend it never arrived. Focus on my books, my classes, the safe path I'd worked so hard to carve out.
But I didn't.
I tucked it under my pillow like a secret.
And I dreamed of blue lights, champagne bubbles, and a boy who shouldn't matter.
Saturday was three days away.
And I already knew I was going.