>Venzrich Archeval
People called me many things—CEO, genius, prodigy, billionaire.
Topping the charts number of times than I can remember.
But the title that stuck, the one I hated the most, was the most handsome man alive.
I didn't choose that label. The internet did. A single photograph from an event years ago—me in a black tux, looking at my watch—was enough to birth a thousand fan accounts and endless, nauseating edits.
It was flattering for about ten minutes, then became a curse.
When people look at you and see perfection, you stop being human. I had to deal with stalkers, obsessed fans when I'm not even a celebrity. Enough for me to completely despise women's touch.
So yes, I'm used to people staring at me.
But not like she did.
The girl with the big eyes, trembling hands, and the worst alcohol tolerance I had ever seen in my life.
When I caught her that first time—her knees about to give out, her body crumpling from too much tequila—my reflexes kicked in. I didn't mean to do it, I was just there the moment it happened. Without thinking, I wrapped an arm around her waist, steadying her. She smelled like lime, expensive perfume, and alcohol.
Then she looked at me. Blinked once. Twice. And said, with total conviction:
"You're ugly."
I almost dropped her.
No one, in my twenty-five years of life, had ever called me ugly. I'd been called intimidating, arrogant, heartless—even inhuman—but ugly? That was new.
I thought she might be joking, but her expression was painfully serious, like she was announcing a medical diagnosis.
Then she pushed me like I was some kind of monster, pointed at my face and declared, "I can't have a baby with a man like you."
For a moment, I wondered if I'd been drugged too. I didn't know there's gonna be a time where I will hear those words for me.
I should've walked away and ignore her like I always did. Any sane man would have. But curiosity rooted me to the spot. There was something absurdly refreshing about her—someone who didn't melt or preen or flirt. She was drunk, disoriented, and possibly hallucinating, but she looked at me like I was a bad painting she wanted to return.
When she waved goodbye and tottered off, I actually wanted to laughed.
And I don't laugh easily.
---
A few minutes later, I found myself just looking at her, half-watching her from the corner of my eye as I tried to focus on my drink. Even I don't understand why I would choose to sit next to her.
The bartender was hesitant to serve her, probably because she already looked like she'd had enough alcohol to fuel a small campfire.
I didn't blame him. The girl was a hazard.
Still, there was something… oddly magnetic about her. The way she kept trying to act composed while her head wobbled slightly, her effort to look dignified as she ordered "One more tequila, please!" like she was asking for water.
When the bartender hesitated again, I intervened without really thinking.
"Didn't you hear the young miss?" I said, letting my voice drop low.
She turned toward me, slow as if the world was moving through syrup. When her gaze met mine, her eyes widened, and for a split second, I thought she'd recognized me.
But no.
"Why is it you again, Four Eyes?!" she whined.
Four Eyes.
I wasn't even wearing glasses.
I bit back a laugh, leaning closer. "Why not? You hate how ugly I am?" I whispered, close enough that she'd hear the teasing edge in my voice.
Her reaction was immediate—her whole body tensed, like a string pulled tight. Then she gasped, slapped a hand over her mouth, and looked at me as if she'd just committed a crime.
"Did I… perhaps offend you?" she asked, horrified.
God, she was something else.
She clasped her hands like she was praying, cheeks flushed pink—not just from the alcohol, but from sheer mortification.
"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to insult you! My mouth sometimes—sometimes it just—says things!"
"What?" I blinked, caught between laughter and disbelief.
She nodded furiously. "I'll pay for your drink as an apology!"
Now, this was getting interesting.
I decided to push back, just a little. "Really? Can you afford it?"
Her chin lifted in challenge. "Of course! How much was it?"
I smirked. "Six hundred dollars. Per glass."
Her face froze like I'd just told her her rent was due in gold bars. Then she started counting with her finger, mumbling to herself. She turned to look at me, her smile was awkward.
"Just one?" she croaked.
That's when I lost it. I chuckled. And I couldn't remember the last time I genuinely wanted to laugh.
Up close, I could see her better under the bar's dim golden lights. Her makeup was slightly smudged, her hair a little out of place, but there was something arresting about her—something raw and unfiltered.
She wasn't beautiful in the polished, magazine-cover way. She was beautiful in the real way. The kind of beauty that wasn't aware of itself.
And that made her even more dangerous.
She stared at me like I was both a puzzle and a dare. Then, with the determination of a woman possessed, she downed another tequila shot.
Her throat moved as she swallowed, her eyes glistening. In a split second she closed the distance between us.
Then she said it.
"Hey! I know this came out of nowhere but…"
I turned to face her fully, resting an elbow on the counter and raising my brow. "Hmm?"
She grabbed my hand—warm, unsteady fingers wrapping around mine—and said with all the seriousness in the world.
"Will you sleep with me?"
---
For a moment, I thought I'd misheard her.
The bar noise faded into a dull hum. The people, the music, even the smell of liquor—all of it blurred out.
I just stared at her.
This drunk little stranger, with her messy hair and trembling voice, had no idea who she was talking to. No idea that the man she'd just propositioned was the same man her country's tabloids called "the untouchable bachelor." Maybe she did? Did she approach me just because of that?
There's a possibility that's the case. But for some reason, I couldn't look away.
I should've walked away like I always did. Politely declined. God knows that would've been the smart thing to do especially coming from a drunk woman.
But as she looked up at me, her lips parted, her eyes glassy but determined, something about her disarmed me.
I leaned in slightly, studying her. "Do you always ask strangers that question?"
She blinked. "Only handsome ones."
Handsome ones.
I almost snorted.
The irony wasn't lost on me—five minutes ago, she'd called me ugly. Now, I was apparently promotion-worthy.
"You think I'm handsome now?" I asked, amused.
She squinted at me, tilting her head. "Maybe. Depends on the lighting."
God, she was chaos wrapped in silk.
"Alright," I said finally, curiosity getting the better of me. "Tell me something first. What's your name?"
She opened her mouth to answer, then frowned, like she was trying to remember something. "Mar…ry?."
"Mary," I repeated, letting the name roll off my tongue. She paused for a few second then nodded.
"And you want me to sleep with you?"
"Yes."
Her gaze that was full of conviction awakened something inside me. I didn't even know I find this kind of thing attractive until now.
But for some reason, the thing that never really woken up from anyone all these years was alive, pulsating, and hungry.
I pulled her waist closer with my arms closing the distance between us until our body brushed against each other, my lips playing softly with her ears.
And in breathy, raspy voice I whispered,
"You better not regret this woman."