The rain had no mercy that night.
Amara's umbrella flipped inside out as she sprinted across the street, clutching her backpack to her chest. Her part-time shift had run late again, and the last bus had long gone. She cursed her luck and the city that always seemed to chew her up and spit her out.
Then headlights blinded her.
Screech.
A black luxury car swerved, but not fast enough. Amara stumbled, her palms smacking against the sleek hood.
Her heart thundered. She wasn't hurt—just soaked, breathless, and humiliated.
The driver's door opened. Out stepped a man in a tailored suit, his expression unreadable under the dim streetlight. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and far too composed for someone who had nearly run her over.
"You should watch where you're going," his voice was low, smooth, commanding.
Amara's jaw dropped. "Me? You almost killed me!"
His gaze flicked over her, slow and deliberate, the kind of look that made her knees unsteady. Expensive watch, sharp jawline, cold eyes—everything about him screamed untouchable.
"I'll have my assistant handle the damages," he said curtly, already pulling out his phone.
Amara's temper flared. "Damages? I don't care about your damn car!"
That made him pause. He studied her again, as though she was more troublesome than the dent on his bumper. Rainwater dripped down her hair, her clothes clinging to every curve. For the first time, his gaze softened—no, darkened—with something else.
"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.
She blinked. "…Why?"
"Because," his lips curved in the faintest hint of a smirk, "I don't let accidents walk away unpaid."