Chapter One – The Predator
Ethan Cole. Man, where do you even start with a guy like that? He's the cautionary tale, the guy your mom side-eyes at a party and quietly hopes you never bring home, except, let's be honest, you'd probably do it anyway to see what the fuss is about. He's thirty-four but carries himself like he's seen the world twice, left it a little messier each time, and somehow got richer along the way. His name? It's not just a name anymore, it's become this weird, sexy rumor that ricochets off skyscrapers and back-alley clubs, from New York to Milan and everywhere between.
Wall Street's obsessed with him, almost worshipful, like he's some golden wolf stalking through their marble halls. Over in Silicon Valley, he's the guy who'll rip your code apart and make a profit off the pieces. Dubai? They call him the kind of trouble that gets whispered about over $10,000 cocktails. In Milan, he's more myth than man, the secret lover behind closed doors and velvet curtains, the one nobody admits to but everyone seems to know.
Here's the thing about Ethan: Money doesn't just follow him, it practically throws itself at his feet, begging to be turned into something flashier. Power? He treats it like an accessory, tosses it on with a tailored suit. And women well, they orbit him like planets around the sun. He doesn't chase, he doesn't beg; he just lets it all happen, like he's in on some cosmic joke.
His life's a highlight reel of excess, no off-switch. He hops from private jets that cut through the clouds like knives to penthouses so high up that the city looks like a toy. His yacht? It's not a boat, it's a moving fortress rumor has it some people get lost onboard and never find their way back. Everything he touches? Gold, obviously. Except for hearts those he leaves in shards, and never looks back.
Tonight, he's at the Waldorf Astoria. The place is showing off, sparkling like it's auditioning for royalty. Chandeliers everywhere, dripping crystal, light bouncing around like it's looking for somewhere to land. The ballroom is packed, every corner humming with quiet ambition and louder gossip. Candles flicker in these tall glass towers, their flames bending every time someone walks by, shadows dancing across marble floors so polished you could probably see your ambition reflected right back at you and maybe your regrets, too.
Flowers spill out of gilded vases roses and orchids, bold and delicate all at once. Their scent floats through the air and mixes with the icy fizz of champagne. It's the kind of night that feels like it could last forever, or end in a flash. Everyone's pretending they're not watching Ethan but, come on, the guy's magnetic. You can almost feel the room leaning toward him, waiting to see what he'll do next. And honestly? So is he.
Money, lust, and that delicious terror of losing it all you could practically feel it pressing against your skin. Everyone in the room was dressed to kill, dripping diamonds or ambition, all of them acting like they belonged, even if half of them were praying their secrets wouldn't leak out before dessert. The higher you climbed, the more the fall scared the hell out of you. That fear? Oh, it tasted like adrenaline and expensive scotch.
And then there was Ethan Cole. Not just present he prowled, moving with that lazy, predatory grace that made you wonder if he was going to shake your hand or steal your soul. His tux? Forget about it blacker than the inside of a coffin, tailored by some Milanese wizard who probably chain-smoked and muttered about "la forma, la potenza" as he worked. The suit looked like it cost more than most people's cars, and Ethan wore it like it was nothing. No fuss, no fidgeting. Just this confidence, quiet and heavy as a loaded gun.
That guy didn't need to say a word. People just felt him coming. He had a jawline sharp enough to file your taxes on, and those ice-blue eyes? Man, he could slice you open from across the room, and you'd say thank you. The weirdest part folks didn't even realize they were drifting toward him, like their bodies got hijacked by some invisible magnet. Didn't matter if you were a senator, a tech billionaire, or just someone's plus-one Ethan was the center of gravity. The guys? They wanted to be him, or at least have his secrets. The women? Please. You could see it those sidelong glances, little half-smiles, the way they tucked their hair behind their ears when he walked by. And his rivals? They hated how much they respected him. Like, honestly, you could almost hear the teeth grinding.
Ethan didn't do fake. No plastic grins, no wasted words. He didn't need to. His presence was the main event. The rest of them? Just background noise.
The orchestra tried their best a waltz, all sugar and swoon but let's be real, nobody was listening. Some senator's wife, drowning herself in Chanel No. 5, brushed against Ethan like she was auditioning for a scandal. He didn't even flinch just let his gaze slide right past her. Two CEOs old money, new nerves hovered close, hoping for a foot in the door. Ethan just took another sip, eyes glazed with indifference. He could make you feel invisible without lifting a finger.
And then Veronica. Hard to miss when you look like a bad idea wrapped in red silk. Legs that went on forever, lips painted the color of sin, hair falling just so God, she knew what she was doing. She wore her beauty like a weapon, sharp and shiny, daring anyone to try their luck and see if they survived. Their eyes locked across the crowd, and it was like someone hit pause on reality. Her chin tipped up, pupils blown wide yeah, she was throwing down a challenge, and Ethan was the only one in the room who noticed.
That smirk barely there, but enough. Not a come-on, not really. More like, "I see you." Two predators, recognizing one another in a sea of prey.
Nights like this, they don't need a script. A look, a brush of fingers, a laugh that's a little too loud, a little too eager. Everything else just melts away. It's just her, heartbeat skipping, and him, closing in like a storm front. You could almost hear the electricity in the air, feel the way the world got smaller around them.
Midnight she's in his arms out on the balcony, city lights sprawled below like spilled jewels. The air's cool, but her skin's burning. She whispers, "You're dangerous," voice trembling against his mouth.
He grins, close enough to taste the lie. "You haven't got a clue." It's a promise and a warning, smoke curling between them, impossible to hold.
Morning comes, and she's tangled in silk sheets, alone. His scent's still there, haunting the pillows, but Ethan? Gone and left nothing but memories and that raw ache behind her ribs. She won't tell anyone how he undid her, how her pride stings, how her heart's quietly leaking out, drop by drop. That's the thing with Ethan he never stays. Just sweeps through your life, leaves everything scorched, and then he's a ghost.
But here's a twist tonight, when Ethan slipped back into the ballroom, champagne in hand, that old certainty didn't feel quite so solid. Something twisted under his skin. Maybe it was the look Veronica gave him as she left, or maybe it was the first time he realized someone might actually see through his armor. For a split second, Ethan wasn't the storm he was the guy wondering if he'd just met the one person who could burn him down.
Funny, isn't it? Even sharks can smell blood sometimes, it's their own.
Laughter chased Ethan down the hallway, but it rang empty like someone had pressed play on a laugh track and forgotten to turn up the volume. The music? Ugh, it sounded like the band was bored of themselves, just going through the motions. Even the champagne, that bubbly stuff everyone pretended to love, tasted like flat soda on his tongue. And the chandelier? Sure, it sparkled, but it felt more like a glacier hanging overhead, cold and sharp, pressing in on his ribs.
Just a second, he slipped let his guard drop. Dangerous, that. But there it was: the question chewing away at the edges of his brain.
What if, just once, someone looked at him and saw a man? Not the billionaire headline, not the apex predator with the killer smile just Ethan, the regular guy underneath all the armor.
Would that even be possible? To be wanted for who he was, not for his bank account or the stories whispered behind his back? To be chosen, not calculated?
Yeah, no surprise it rattled him. Left him feeling, well, naked. Exposed. And Ethan Cole did not do vulnerable. That was for other people. Love? Nah. That was just another word for giving someone a loaded gun and asking them to aim at your heart.
So, he tossed back the last of his drink, let the icy mask settle over him again. The ballroom? Still his territory. He knew the game. Women wanted a piece of him. Men either tried to size him up or shrank away. All the enemies smiled those fake smiles sharpened at the edges.
He ruled here. Always had. But what he couldn't predict what nobody could was how fast everything he'd built could get flipped on its head.
Because somewhere out past the city lights, some girl midnight eyes, tough as hell was living a life that looked nothing like his. No champagne. No silk. Her strength came from scrapping her way through every single day, not from flashing a black card.
She'd hit his world like a hurricane. Out of nowhere, impossible to ignore, and absolutely not the sort of woman you could buy off or brush aside.
And Ethan? The so-called wolf in custom Italian suits? He was about to find out what it actually felt like to bleed for somebody besides himself.
The Predator's Playground
The party had taken a turn. Bubbly was out; whiskey was in. Laughter wasn't light anymore it had teeth. By midnight, the Waldorf's ballroom was just a memory. Upstairs, in a hush-hush lounge, the real party started invite-only, no rules, just the way Ethan liked it.
Honestly, this place was his. Or maybe, he was the only one who really belonged. Velvet couches, gold light, smoke curling through the air like whispered secrets. Jazz in the background, more moan than melody. Waiters ghosted around with caviar and cognac, but honestly, nobody cared. The real menu was people actors, models, the rich and restless, all dressed to kill and desperate to matter.
Ethan stood in the middle, cool as ice, one hand in his pocket, other swirling a drink that probably cost more than your rent. Conversations stuttered when he glanced their way. Laughter got weirdly loud if he walked by. Women straightened, men sucked in their guts.
He didn't have to try. He never did.
And then bam there she was.
The Starlet
Vivienne Laurent.
You know her name. Everybody does. French, gorgeous, starlet on the rise, hair like spun gold. She wore this silver dress tonight cut low, hugging her like a second skin, sequins catching every damn light in the room.
Naturally, she was surrounded. Big shots, wannabes, producers, guys who thought "networking" meant breathing the same air as her. She laughed, all warm and easy, and her smile? Could've melted a glacier.
But Ethan wasn't most men.
Their eyes met just for a second, but it was enough. Vivienne's smile flickered. She kept it together, but her eyes oh, there was something sharp there. Curiosity. Maybe even a challenge.
Ethan's lips curled up, just a little. He raised his glass, not so much inviting her over as daring her to come.
She broke away from her herd, moving with that movie-star confidence—hips swaying, everyone watching like it was the main event.
"You look like you're having a hell of a time," Ethan drawled, voice low and rough around the edges, like he owned the place and maybe her attention, too.
Her lips tugged up, sly. "And you look like you're just waiting for the night to show you a good time."
He didn't miss a beat. "Maybe it just did."
Those words simple, smooth slipped between them, all smoke and suggestion. She cocked her head, giving him that look, the kind you see in nature docs right before the lion pounces.
"You're Ethan Cole," she finally said.
He lifted one eyebrow. "You sound pretty damn sure."
A lazy grin crept across her mouth. "Everyone here knows you. The guy who snaps up cities for fun. The wolf who pretends he's housebroken."
Ethan let out a low laugh. "And you're Vivienne Laurent. The world's latest obsession."
She dropped her lashes, hiding whatever spark was flickering in those eyes. "Maybe we're both just bedtime stories in the flesh, huh?"
The Lure
Conversation slipped along, easy as breathing. She rambled on about her new movie, her globe-trotting, the way fame wraps around your throat. Ethan well, he played the part. Watched her, nodded, every move calculated to make her feel like the only woman left on Earth.
But in his head? He was already weaving his little spiderweb. Always did.
He handed her a glass of Château Margaux so rare she nearly dropped it. Leaned in close, voice just above a whisper, made her lean in too. Laughed at the perfect moment, compliments sharp enough to draw blood but never needy.
And always, always, left her wanting more.
When she brushed his hand, he let it hang there just long enough. Didn't grab back. When she tossed a flirty dig his way, he just smirked, didn't take the bait. When she leaned in and her perfume wrapped around him, he eased back, leaving a gap she had to bridge.
By one in the morning, she wasn't the star anymore. She was caught in his orbit, plain and simple.
The Penthouse
They slid into a car black, silent, slick as oil. Vivienne sat close, laughter a little too loud in that leather cocoon. Ethan let her fill the air, spinning tales about Cannes, Paris, directors crawling for her attention.
He told her nothing about himself. That was the trick. The less he gave, the more they wanted.
The elevator pinged open to his penthouse and Vivienne actually gasped. Glass walls showing off Manhattan, all glitter and shine. Sculptures scattered around, art bleeding color across the room, a piano lounging in the corner.
She spun in place. "Jesus. It's unreal."
Ethan poured out two flutes of champagne real stuff, bubbles sharp as razors. Handed her one and clinked his glass. "To things that take your breath away."
She looked at him, pupils huge, hungry for more than just champagne.
The rest? No surprise there.
Fade to Black
He kissed her like a storm dressed up in velvet. Controlled, but yeah—she knew she was in trouble. She melted, whimpered, let every bit of her shield slide right off. Her laughter turned quiet, her boldness faded to breathless whispers, her glamour just a memory.
The night blurred heat, shadows, the kind of gasp you let out when you realize you gave it all to a man who never planned to give anything back.
Ethan was careful, almost cruel in his precision, every touch meant to break her open.
But his eyes? Cold as ever.
And when morning crept in, Vivienne woke up alone, the sheets cool and empty.
On the nightstand a note, handwriting sharp enough to cut:
Thanks for the evening. The car's waiting downstairs. Go wherever you want. E.C.
The Aftermath
She stared at the note, throat burning. Vivienne Laurent—queen of the world, idolized, chased by billionaires.
But Ethan Cole had devoured her, spat her out, left her as nothing more than perfume fading in the air.
She dressed in a hurry, pride stitching her spine straight, and left without a sound. By the time she hit the car, the humiliation had already started to calcify into something darker.
Ethan knew she'd be back. They always were. Not for love he never bothered with that. Not for sex though, let's be real, he never dropped the ball there.
They came back because he was the only man in the world who refused to put them on a pedestal.
And that? That was the addiction.
Ethan Alone
Back in his glass castle, Ethan stood at the window, shirt half-done, glass of water sweating in his hand. The city stretched out, pulsing and hungry as ever.
He should've felt something pride, victory, whatever.
But honestly? Nothing.
Same old story: chase, catch, discard, repeat. The cycle left him feeling hollower every time.
His own reflection stared back sharp jaw, dead eyes, a smirk that didn't even belong to him anymore.
This was his kingdom.
And for the first time, a thought slithered in, unwelcome as hell.
What if the next storm doesn't let me be king?