Elena's POV
The old man is dying in my arms, and I can't do anything to stop it.
"Please, stay with me," I whisper, squeezing his wrinkled hand. His fingers are cold and shaking. Blood soaks through his white shirt from somewhere I can't see. "The ambulance is coming. Just hold on."
His eyes flutter. "Tell... tell my boss... I'm sorry..."
"Shh, don't talk. Save your strength." My own hands are shaking too, covered in his blood. Around us, the hospital emergency entrance is chaos. Nurses are running. Someone is screaming. But I can't leave this man alone. Nobody should die alone.
I've been volunteering at Saint Catherine's Hospital for two years—ever since Mom died from cancer and I couldn't afford the medical bills. I thought if I helped enough people, maybe it would balance out the one person I couldn't save. Stupid, I know. But I'm twenty-two and still believe in fairy tales where good things happen to good people.
"You're going to be okay," I lie, because that's what you do when someone is dying. You give them hope, even when there isn't any.
That's when I feel it—the weight of someone's stare burning into the side of my face.
I look up and freeze.
A man stands fifteen feet away, and he's the most terrifying person I've ever seen.
He's tall and dressed in a black suit that probably costs more than my entire year of college tuition. His face is beautiful in a sharp, dangerous way—like a knife wrapped in expensive silk. Dark hair. Cold gray eyes that pin me in place like a butterfly on a board. And he's staring at me with an intensity that makes my stomach flip.
Not at the dying man. At me.
"Elena, the paramedics are here!" Sarah, my nursing friend, grabs my shoulder.
I tear my eyes away from the terrifying man and help the paramedics load the old driver onto the stretcher. They work fast, professional. One of them shakes his head slightly when he checks the man's pulse. My heart sinks. I already know.
The ambulance screams away into the night, taking the man who won't survive the ride.
I stand there with blood on my volunteer scrubs, shaking and trying not to cry. I hate this part. I hate watching people die and being too powerless to stop it.
"Hey." Sarah squeezes my arm. "You did everything you could. Come on, let's get you cleaned up."
But before I can move, a shadow falls over me.
I look up into those cold gray eyes.
Up close, he's even more terrifying. And somehow more beautiful. His face is all hard angles and sharp edges, like God carved him from ice and forgot to add warmth. He's maybe thirty, but his eyes look older—like they've seen terrible things and stopped caring.
"That was my driver," he says. His voice is deep and smooth, like dark chocolate mixed with poison.
"I'm so sorry," I blurt out. "I tried to help him, but—"
"What's your name?"
The question throws me. "What?"
"Your name." He steps closer. He smells like expensive cologne and something darker I can't identify. Danger, maybe. "Tell me."
My heart is racing for reasons I don't understand. "Elena. Elena Russo."
His gray eyes scan my face like he's memorizing every detail. It makes me feel naked even though I'm fully dressed. "Elena," he repeats, and my name sounds different in his mouth. Possessive. "You stayed with him. Why?"
"Because nobody should die alone," I say quietly.
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe?—but it's gone so fast I might have imagined it. His expression goes back to cold stone.
"How much do you make volunteering here?"
I blink. "I... I don't get paid. It's volunteer work."
"Then you work for free, holding the hands of dying strangers." He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve. "That's either incredibly kind or incredibly stupid."
My spine straightens. I might be poor and powerless, but I'm not stupid. "Maybe it's both. Or maybe some of us still believe in helping people without expecting anything back."
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then—shockingly—one corner of his mouth lifts. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Interesting," he murmurs.
Before I can ask what that means, he pulls out a business card and presses it into my bloody palm. His fingers brush mine for just a second, and I swear electricity shoots up my arm.
"Dante Moretti," he says. "CEO of Moretti Industries. If you ever need anything, Elena Russo, call that number."
Then he turns and walks away, disappearing into a black car that's probably worth more than my entire apartment building.
I stand there, confused and breathless, staring at the card in my hand.
Sarah rushes over. "Oh my God, do you know who that was? Dante Moretti! He's like one of the richest, most powerful men in New York! What did he say to you?"
"He... gave me his number?"
Sarah's eyes go huge. "WHAT? Elena, this is insane! Why would a billionaire give you his personal number?"
I shake my head, still staring at the elegant black card with silver lettering. "I have no idea."
But even as I say it, something warm and terrifying blooms in my chest. A feeling I shouldn't have. A hope I shouldn't let myself feel.
Because girls like me—broke, powerless, nobody girls—don't catch the attention of men like Dante Moretti.
Except... he looked at me like I was something precious. Like I mattered.
I slip the card into my pocket, telling myself I'll throw it away later.
I won't throw it away.
Three days later, flowers arrive at my apartment.
Not just any flowers—two dozen blood-red roses in a crystal vase that's probably worth more than my monthly rent. The card attached has only two words written in sharp, elegant handwriting:
"Dinner. Tonight. —D.M."
My hands shake as I read it again. This can't be real. Billionaires don't send flowers to volunteer hospital workers. They don't ask girls like me to dinner.
But my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number:
"A car will pick you up at 7 PM. Wear something nice. Don't make me wait, Elena."
It's not a request. It's a command.
I should say no. Every logical part of my brain screams that this is dangerous, that men like Dante Moretti are predators and girls like me are prey.
But I'm twenty-two and drowning in student loans and grief and a life that feels too small. And for the first time in forever, something exciting is happening to me.
So I text back: "Okay."
I don't know it yet, but that single word—that one moment of weakness—will destroy my entire life.
And by the time I realize the truth, it will be far too late to run.