Chapter 1: The Devil Behind the Wheel
They warned me, you know. Said he’d ruin me before I even realized I was falling.
Break my heart? Please. He wasn't even on my radar, let alone in my chest cavity.
You’ll see, they said. He’s like gravity—silent, slow, and impossible to fight.
My name is Marla Quinn, and nowhere—nowhere—on my to-do list was “fall for a smug billionaire with a fan club and a Ferrari.” People keep acting like I’m supposed to swoon at the sight of a black credit card and a jawline that could cut glass. Even my best friend, Tessa, has her doubts about me resisting him.
His name? Cassian Locke. Fashion mogul. Pink Moda CEO. Global heartthrob. The kind of guy who lights a cigar with hundred-dollar bills and probably has a private chef for his dog.
Well, I’ve got news for them: I’m not one of those girls. And if fate thinks it's funny to throw me into his orbit, I’ll rewrite the damn stars.
How did we meet? Let’s just say, I wasn’t exactly rolling out the red carpet. I was dragging my boots on concrete after a failed job interview that stank of perv and disappointment. No money for the bus, no plan B—just me, my frayed resume, and a headache.
The street was its usual chaos—honking horns, engines growling, impatient pedestrians muttering curses under their breath. As I stepped toward the crosswalk, I spotted a ridiculously sleek, immobile car. A Ferrari. Black. Quiet. Too shiny for its own good.
Since it clearly wasn’t moving, I kept walking. That’s when the squeal hit. Tires screamed. So did I—except mine was more of a startled gasp as I landed flat on my ass, the pavement scraping my palms and pride.
I hissed and cursed as I tested my ankle. Bruised but still functioning. But the rage? That was fully operational.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” I snapped at the car, staggering to my feet like a war-wounded soldier. “Ever heard of a brake pedal?”
The driver’s door opened.
Out stepped the source of all my future migraines. Tall. Tailored black suit. Hair the color of sin, swept carelessly over one eye. He looked like a villain from a fragrance commercial—smoldering, sculpted, and deeply irritating.
He strolled toward me, every step screaming expensive apathy.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked, voice clipped and dismissive, like I was a fly on his Italian windshield. “Paparazzi? Or just deranged?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You people really will do anything for attention,” he continued, as if I’d just crawled out of a sewer with a selfie stick. “Next time, try throwing yourself at a Lamborghini.”
“Excuse me?” My voice rose with my blood pressure. “I’m not some stalker with a telephoto lens! You almost hit me, you lunatic.”
He glanced—glanced—at my scraped knee. “Ah, so this is about money.”
My eyes narrowed. “What? No! It’s about decency. Something you clearly lack.”
Cassian raised one brow—one impossibly sculpted brow—and sauntered back to his car. He returned with a smug grin and a wad of cash. He peeled off bills like he was stripping leaves from a branch.
“Here. For your trouble.” He dropped the money like confetti, watching it flutter down my body like I was some tragic parade float.
Stunned. Speechless. Then furious.
“You entitled prick!” I scrambled to grab the bills from the ground, shaking with rage. But before I could throw them back, the Ferrari roared to life and disappeared down the street, leaving nothing but tire smoke and my seething dignity.
Oh, I would see him again. The universe owed me that.
---
“You’re kidding.” Tessa was practically vibrating as I recounted everything from my spot on her plush lavender couch. We’d been best friends since my scholarship landed me in her fancy private school years ago.
“Nope. He made it rain like he was in a strip club,” I said. “All because of a scraped knee.”
Tessa sighed, dreamy. “But was he hot?”
“That is not the point, Tessa.”
“I know,” she cooed. “But was he?”
I groaned. “Devil-level hot. But arrogant. Like, Bond villain meets Calvin Klein ad.”
She giggled. “Ugh. Why do the hottest ones always come pre-installed with an ego problem?”
“Because the universe is evil,” I muttered.
“What about the interview?” she asked, sobering slightly.
“Don’t ask. The guy running it was one greasy leer away from a lawsuit. I called him out and walked.”
Tessa winced. “Gross. Why do some people still think models are—”
“Call girls? Yeah. Apparently, professionalism died in that office.”
“Forget that.” She rubbed my shoulders, her voice softening. “You’ve had a hell of a day.”
“You’re a saint,” I sighed. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Please. I love being your emotional support pillow.”
She brightened suddenly. “Remember that company my uncle works for? He submits model portfolios to Pink Moda.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The Pink Moda?”
“Yep. I can get him to add your name. No sleazy interviews. No creeps.”
My mouth dropped. “Tessa—”
“Don’t thank me yet. Wait until you’re on a billboard.”
“You’re the best!” I tackled her into a hug, nearly knocking over her herbal tea.
“What else are friends for?”
---
“You’re home,” Mom said as I stepped through the door, her knitting needles clicking softly. Her necklace—cheap silver, engraved with Janelle—glinted under the weak light.
“Yeah,” I exhaled. My legs felt like lead.
She looked up from her yarn. “How did it go?”
I slumped onto the armrest beside her. “I walked out. The guy was a creep.”
“I see.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I wanted to make today count.”
She reached out and took my hand, her fingers warm and steady.
“You didn’t fail me, Marla. We’re still standing. That’s enough.”
I buried my face in her shoulder, exhausted.
“We’ll figure something out,” she whispered, stroking my hair.
“I brought groceries. Tessa helped.”
“That girl has a heart the size of Montana,” she smiled.
“Yeah. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
But even as I said it, my thoughts drifted back—to that man, that car, that cocky smirk.
Cassian Locke.
He’d walked into my life like a storm—and something told me, he wasn’t done.
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