You have a problem.

You are an average web novel reader. You devour romance stories, go on a binge-reading session whenever a new challenge presents itself, daydream about all the red flag characters who aren't that bad when you take the time to get to know them, and eat, breathe, and sleep tropes. Reality is a distraction between stories. Your thumb muscles are the strongest muscles in your body. If you saw a werewolf with a bad attitude, dark, smoldering eyes, and a ripped body, you would probably throw yourself at him and say, "Take me now!”

Okay, maybe you have a few problems. But don’t worry. I’m about to give you a bunch more.

“Um, what? Who’s speaking? I can’t see anything. It’s all black, and—wait. Are those letters? And punctuation marks?”

Oh, yeah, I write in dark mode. Careful not to trip on any of the colored squiggly underlines. Editing comes later. For now, hello. Allow me to introduce myself. I am your author, and this is your story.

“What?” you shriek, scattering white letters across the screen. “No! I was just reading a story, and—what’s happening? Where am I now?”

Standing in a sauna, because you're already making a mess of my document, and we can't have that, can we? The room is white. White and steamy. A man wearing nothing but a towel around his waist is sitting on a wooden bench, staring straight ahead. Condensation is collecting on his tanned skin and outlining every gorgeous muscle in glistening detail. His black hair is slicked back from his chiseled face, and wow, if that isn't the definition of dark, smoldering eyes. It's hot. The room is hot. He is hot. Smokin'. On fire.

No, really. He’s on fire. You should probably do something about that.

“What the—hey, you! Snap out of it! Crap. Where’s a fire extinguisher? We’re in a sauna! Water is everywhere! Why is he on fire?”

Smoke is curling from his ears now. Those smoldering eyes have burst into the flames of a thousand passionate, fiery suns, but he hasn't moved. He's still just sitting there, as if he's in a trance. Panicked, you dart to the door and yank it open, and lo-and-behold, there's a fire extinguisher hanging on the wall right outside the sauna. You grab it and skim the instructions. Pull the pin, point the nozzle at the base of the fire, and squeeze. Well, that's easy enough. Except the fire appears to have started in his eyes, although it has moved on to his eyebrows, so you point the fire extinguisher at his face and spray him with its entire contents.

“Hey!" he sputters, leaping to his feet and wiping white foam from his eyes. "What do you think you're doing? I had achieved Zen!”

“You had achieved self-combustion!” you retort. “I saved your life!”

“You ruined everything!” He growls and storms out of the sauna, dripping water and foam. Confused and a little turned on, which confuses you even more, you follow him, and it is then that you realize the next room is a bathroom. He goes to the Victorian claw-footed porcelain sink and turns on the gold-plated faucet, then washes the foam from his face while you watch his back muscles ripple. You know everything about this is ridiculous, but the view is pretty good right now, so you’re not complaining.

Yet. Just wait for it.

But forget about the foreboding, because he just turned the water off. He glares at his reflection and at you, standing slack-jawed behind him. That cut jaw is to die for, and if cheekbones could dream about what they wanted to be when they grew up, they would want to look just like his cheekbones. An eyebrow technician could only hope to thread a shape like that, and those eyes—now that they aren’t smoldering or aflame, they’re a charcoal black, as deep and mysterious as the laundry list of reasons you need to limit your screen time is long. He still has white foam in his hair and on his neck, and on those pecs…

“Seen enough?” he asks. He turns to face you and crosses his arms over his chest. Mm, biceps…

A glob of white foam falls from his elbow to the floor. You shake yourself and realize you've been ogling this man whom you do not know, and your face is now redder than the fire extinguisher in your hands. Which you drop. The fire extinguisher, not your hands. Those are rather attached to you. “S-sorry! I… um…”

“Don’t bother to come up with some kind of excuse. I know who you are and why you’re here.”

Oh? This could be helpful information for you. Pay attention now! To his words. Not to the perfect shape of his lips. Girl, get a hold of yourself!

“Well, Y/n, it won’t work,” he continues. “Nothing you say or do will change my mind. I’m buying your company, and that’s—”

“What did you call me?” you interrupt him. Look at you, actually listening! Good job. Gold star.

He furrows his incredible brow. “I’m not stupid. Everybody’s heard of you, Y/n. And how did you even get past security?” He sighs and shakes his head. “Whatever. Just get out. I need to take a shower now, thanks to that stunt you pulled. I’m sure you know the way.”

You don’t, but there are only two doors in the bathroom, and you already know one leads to the sauna. In the interest of catching your breath and processing everything that’s happened, you bolt past him, his enormous jacuzzi, and his equally enormous walk-in shower, and you exit into a bedroom that is approximately the size of a hockey rink. As soon as you shut the door behind you, you slump against it, your head spinning. Not literally, fortunately for you.

“Okay. Okay, wait. My name is ‘Y/n’? I hear ‘Yin,’ but I somehow know it’s spelled like the abbreviation for ‘your name’ in second-person fanfiction. That isn’t my name, though. My name is…”

You trail off, realizing you don't remember your name, and I take pity on you and decide to enlighten you. Yes, your name is 'Y/n,' pronounced like 'Yin.' Your mother's handwriting was terrible when she wrote your name down for your birth certificate. This has led to you becoming the butt of many, many jokes, in part because you also have an undefined Asian background. You saw your reflection in the mirror, didn't you? Behind Mr. Hunk?

You nod. “Yeah, I did. I have long, wavy black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a great figure. And a perfect complexion. I don’t remember what I looked like before, but I can deal with this. What brand of makeup am I wearing? It hasn’t smudged or run at all, even with all that steam. And what am I doing here? And who is Mr. Hot? And why was he literally on fire? And—”

The makeup is a brand used in the entertainment industry: Suspended Reality. The same company styled your hair and made your clothes, too. Notice how you aren't even damp or sweaty?

“Yeah, about that.” You look down at your button-up white blouse, knee-length black pencil skirt, and six-inch glossy red heels. “What am I, a secretary or something? And what’s with these shoes? Kinda bold for a plain black-and-white outfit.”

You’ll see. And that goes for the rest of your questions, too.

“That isn’t very helpful.”

It isn’t supposed to be helpful.

Anyway, your male lead seems to have taken the world’s quickest shower, because he’s opening the door behind you right now. And catching you in his strong arms when you fall backgrounds into him. That is a rock-solid chest. Wow. You could get used to this.

“I told you to get out,” he growls. He does a lot of growling, doesn’t he?

You jump away from him. He’s in a new, non-foamy towel now, and his hotness hits you all over again and almost makes you swoon. Almost, except for the sudden stabbing pain in your chest when you meet his eyes. He stumbles back and clutches at his chest, his eyes widening. Within you, your wolf stirs.

“My what?” you shriek. You might want to stop doing that. He can’t hear me. If you want to talk to me when you’re around other characters, just think whatever you want to say. I’ll get it.

Oh. Well, I can't write that down. Geez. I don't think I deserve to be called that word. Take a second look at what I'm giving you to work with, lady!

“No,” he says, oblivious to your profane thoughts. “No.” He shakes his head and sets his jaw. “You are not my mate. I won’t accept it!”

“A mate bond?” you shriek again.

He slaps his hand over your mouth. “Stop doing that! It hurts my ears, and it won’t change anything. I’m already engaged to a rival family’s daughter, and if I break that engagement, a gang war will start, and nobody wants that. Plus, I don’t like women who sneak into my house and attack me with fire extinguishers. So get out!”

You shove his hand away and glare at him as your wolf whimpers and your heart shatters into a million pieces. “No. You can’t deny the mate bond. If you do—”

He groans and drags his hand across his face, then looks you up and down. “I guess you’re not bad-looking. If we’re careful, I could keep you on the side, and that would make our wolves happy—”

You slap him. Good for you.

“How dare you?” you ask, balling your hands into fists at your sides. “I will not be your side dish! The nerve!”

“Says the girl who had the nerve to break into my house!”

“I didn’t—I just—I…”

Yeah, this looks bad for you, doesn’t it? But while you’re stuttering and stammering, trying to come up with some way of correcting his horrible first impression of you, he decides he no longer wants to carry on this conversation in a towel, and he turns his back on you and walks to his bureau. Yum, back muscles…

Focus! The man is about to get dressed, and if you don’t want to faint and miss the rest of this chapter, you need to turn around right now.

“Can’t I—”

Nope. I don’t write explicit content. Turn around, missy.

“What?” you shriek again. “I’m stuck in a werewolf romance, and I won’t even get to—”

“What are you talking about?” the werewolf in question asks. “Seriously, is something wrong with you?”

See? Now he thinks you're crazy. I told you that thinking whatever you want to say to me would be better. And also, correction: it's a billionaire mafia vampire werewolf romance.

Billionaire mafia vampire… you think, finally catching my drift. Wait. He’s buying my company, and he’s engaged to a rival family’s daughter, and the mate bond… That’s the billionaire, mafia, and werewolf stuff. What about the vampire? Is he a vampire, too?

Nope. That would be you. And you're also a CEO, by the way. When he said he was buying 'your company,' he meant 'your company.' You're a millionaire vampire werewolf. Fewer zeros in your bank account, but way more than I'll ever have.

Hello? Earth to Y/n? Hello?

I think I just broke you.

“Alright, that's it. You're getting out of here," the billionaire mafia werewolf says. He has put on a smart blue shirt and a black pair of slacks, and he grabs you by the arm and drags you across the expanse of his imperial bedroom toward yet another door, this one large enough for a baby elephant to walk through and, fittingly, carved with baby elephants. Well, I suppose they could be adults. Anyway, he's dragging you along, and when you wake from your stupor and realize what's happening, you plant your six-inch heels into the plush Persian rug. He yanks on your arm, and with a sickening crack, your right heel breaks off.

“Hey! Let go of me! You just broke my shoe!”

“You just broke into my house!”

You two are getting along swimmingly. A match made in… a web novel.

Outside the grand entrance are two tall, muscular men with shaved heads, sunglasses, and black suits. Your love interest shoves you toward them.

“Throw her out and make sure she—hey!”

You step on the nearest security guard's foot and grind your left heel into him, making him yelp like a little puppy. He releases you, and the chase is on. You race through the hallway, somehow managing to keep up a pretty good pace in one six-inch heel and one heelless shoe. It's the adrenaline. I've given you plenty of reasons for a fight-or-flight reaction, and to be honest, you held out longer than I expected.

But having armed security guards chasing you through an unknown mansion would get anybody's blood pumping, and despite your best efforts, they're gaining on you. You can hear their footsteps pounding closer and closer. Or maybe that's your heart pounding. Something is pounding. This place is huge. The marble floor is polished to a high sheen. You see a curving staircase descending toward what you hope is the entry hall, and you take a sharp left, aiming for the stairs.

“Stop!” your should-be mate shouts, jumping in front of you. Drat it all! He knew a shortcut! He grabs you by the arm again, and you slap him again, and then you dash away from him, past a wet floor sign and toward the stairs.

“Deploy Plan B!” someone shouts.

Your heelless shoe hits the wet floor and slips out from under you just as a guard throws a banana peel under your heeled shoe. Both of your feet are airborne. You are airborne. You miss the top step and tumble forward, thinking, This is it! I’m dead.

But this is only chapter one, sweetie.