Manhattan's penthouse outside buzzed with neon. 

I lounged in the swivel chair, champagne flute spinning in my hand.

Outside the giant windows, Times Square lit up with Alexander King's proposal video.

"Five, four, three..." I smirked. 

My phone buzzed—$5.21 million wired in. 

Cha-ching.

Charles, my prim butler, polished a silver teapot, frowning like he'd swallowed a lemon.

"Miss, aren't we pushing it too far?"

I grinned.

 "A $52,000 proposal flipped for seven figures? Charles, when a tech bro bleeds cash for love, that's just the market flexing."

He sighed. "You could retire yesterday with that account."

I scrolled Alexander and Emma's yacht pics on Insta, snorting.

Those two are still mushy. 

I need KingTech's stock to tank already.

The system droned, "Target assets: $270 million."

Ugh, Silicon Valley's printing money for this guy.

My phone pinged. 

Alexander: "Central Park fireworks? You again."

I rolled my eyes, typing, "genius."

***

Then—another buzz. 

Black avatar, Ethan.B: "Business chat?"

This creep's been spamming me for 18 hours.

 I shot back, "I'm over cash. Pass."

"Sure?" he replied, instant.

A low growl rumbled outside, like a beast stalking closer.

My gut screamed watched.

Then—BOOM—the window exploded. 

Glass sprayed, champagne sloshing. 

A black helicopter hovered, blades whipping my hair into a tangle.

A guy in a slick Thom Browne suit stepped in, oxfords crunching glass,

his gold-rimmed glasses flashed under the neon haze. 

He oozed a chill that could ice over Manhattan.

"Ethan Blackwood," he said, loosening his tie with flashing sharp canines. 

The system chimed, "Unknown variable. Difficulty up."

"Interested now, Sophie?"

That woody cologne hit—addictive, annoying as hell. 

My heart skipped.

I'd memorized this tacky book.

Ethan's the "nice" guy who loses. 

"nice" guy? What a joke!

Ethan's smirk twitched, as if annoyed.

He stared too long, gray-green eyes digging in. 

I wiped champagne off my cheek, faking cool.

"Elevator's that way, dude."

He chuckled, locking on me like prey he'd hunted forever.

"Too boring for the chick scamming Alexander blind."

He smirked wider. "I like your hustle."

***

His assistant flipped on a PPT—my "love coach" profits in bar graphs. 

When it wrapped, Ethan closed in, his cologne mixing with the chilly wind.

I backed into the desk.

He didn't stop, tilting my chin up, forcing my hazel eyes to his.

"Tell me, Sophie," he purred, low and dangerous, "how do you make Alexander bleed cash so easy?"

I gulped, flashing a fake grin.

 "Uh... killer astrology skills."

His thumb grazed my lip, one brow cocked.

"So, genius, what's my fatal flaw?"

I huffed, glaring into those stupid deep eyes. 

"You're emotionally bankrupt."

He froze, a flicker of something tired in his face. 

"Good guess..."

He straightened, tapping the desk twice, smirking like he'd already won.

Great—now I've got a billionaire stalker who smells too damn good.