Chapter 1: The Number on His Card

Brendan Tate was born into one of Manhattan’s most powerful families—rich, respected, and always just out of reach. But even he had someone he couldn’t have. There were always whispers about his first love, the one that slipped away—the girl everyone thought he’d marry someday. He told himself the age gap was too big, never dared to cross the line, and in the end, he broke off the engagement with the girl everyone had pegged as his forever crush.

A year later, broke and drifting, I ended up with Brendan Tate. The people in those circles all knew what I was—just a distraction, a stand-in for the one he couldn’t have. Honestly, I didn’t care. When I was done playing, I’d walk away without looking back. But for a second, I let myself feel the weight of it—the strangeness, the thrill, the emptiness. Then I shook it off.

But Brendan wasn’t the type to let things go. Later, he chased me halfway across the world just to drag me back. He slipped off his silk tie, tapped my cheek with it, and grinned, “You’re finished playing already? Fiancée?”

Right after that drink, I ended up crashing straight into Brendan. The alcohol hit me hard, and suddenly I was face-first in his chest at the corner, landing with a thud on the carpet. My knees burned. Still kneeling, eyes down, I caught sight of his shoes—flawless, black dress pants falling perfectly, every inch of him immaculate. The sharp, cold scent of expensive cologne and clean wool drifted down to me, cutting through the haze.

Behind me, Jordan Xu’s familiar teasing voice piped up. “Mr. Tate, sorry about this. She’s my plus-one tonight, had a little too much and ran into you.”

Jordan bent to help me, but panic made me clutch Brendan’s pant leg. He clicked his tongue and stepped back, obviously irritated—wanting nothing to do with this drama. I could feel the tension in him, the way he shifted his weight as if hoping he’d disappear from the whole scene.

Jordan’s hand clamped down on my bare shoulder. Tears stung my eyes as I looked up and met Brendan’s gaze. He looked down at me, cold and proud, like someone who always gets his way. The hallway was dim, shadows slicing through the space. He stood in darkness, his eyes cool and unreadable, pausing on my face.

“Help me,” I begged, barely able to form the words. “Help me.”

“Sorry, Mr. Tate,” Jordan insisted, half-hauling me up. “She’s drunk and talking nonsense, not herself.”

Tears spilled over as I tried to grab Brendan’s jacket, but Jordan yanked me back into his arms.

“Wait.”

My heart tripped. Brendan’s voice came, slow and measured: “Mr. Xu, don’t you think this is a bit much?”

Jordan froze, hand still on my shoulder, then let go. He straightened, his usual smile wiped clean. “Mr. Tate, you’re crossing the line.”

Brendan shot back, “So what? This isn’t Los Angeles.”

In LA, Jordan could get away with anything, thanks to the Xu family’s money. But in New York, the rules changed—Brendan’s rules.

“Mr. Tate just broke off an engagement with a fiancée more than ten years younger,” Jordan sneered. “Thought you were the perfect gentleman.”

Brendan looked down at me, trembling on the carpet, and smirked. “Still more of a gentleman than you.”

The two stared each other down, tension thick, until Jordan finally turned and left. My whole body went limp, collapsing onto the carpet, head spinning.

Those polished shoes drew closer, carrying that unmistakable cool scent. Suddenly, something heavy settled around my shoulders. I looked up, startled—Brendan had draped his suit jacket over me. As he straightened, his tie brushed against my face. Through blurry eyes, I met his gaze again. This time, his stare was dark, inspecting every inch of me, full of authority and pressure I couldn’t ignore.

I knew exactly what my looks were worth.

He asked, “Do you still have your phone?” His voice was flat, emotionless.

I shook my head.

He didn’t say another word, but his assistant handed me a business card—crisp, white, with gold-embossed letters that caught the light. The card read: “Tate Capital.” Below that, in smaller print: “Brendan Tate.” For a second, I just stared at it, the texture cool and almost too sharp between my fingers.

Everyone in New York knew the Tate family, knew Brendan Tate. He was the eldest son, the head of Tate Holdings—always calm, never letting anyone see what he felt. For nearly thirty years, he’d been cold, distant, and single, with no scandals except for that recent broken engagement.

No surprise—he liked my face.

But then, he turned to his secretary and said, “Call 911, get her to a hospital. Then call the police and file a report.”

Me: “...?”

It wasn’t long before I dialed his number. After I had my stomach pumped, I gave my statement to the police. The club was thoroughly investigated—though it took a few days, and the process was more exhausting than dramatic. Jordan tried to pressure me again. For a college kid with no real connections, it didn’t take much to threaten my future.