I stared at the softly glowing elevator panel, each backlit button a promise of escape I didn’t believe in. The mirrored interior multiplied my reflection until I felt trapped in a hall of distorted possibilities, just like the rest of this over-the-top luxury hotel in Seoul. The faint sweetness of sandalwood cologne lingered in the air—an invisible ghost from some previous guest—curling around the high-gloss walls. The doors slid open with a whisper, and I hesitated. My heart thudded against my ribcage like a warning drum: To go forward or turn back? There was no choice. Bryson was hunting me. I needed to vanish—anywhere but here—and with enough cash to slip past his reach. America would offer anonymity; I could blend in more easily than in Asia. I’d probably need to get somewhere else first. But first, I had to reach the penthouse. My hand trembled as I inhaled, steeling myself, then pressed the button for 34.

As the doors closed, the mirrored glass caught sight of me: a disillusioned, wide-eyed version of a woman I barely recognized. I studied my reflection, wondering if I could pass for twenty-one. It hardly mattered. The lie was just one of many I was telling tonight. Formerly my best feature, my slightly longer than shoulder-length hair, once a rich auburn, had faded to a dark brown with a reddish tint, as the black dye I had tried a few months ago started to wear off. I’d worn short wigs so long I’d forgotten what it meant to let my own hair fall free.

My makeup was modest—a touch of liner, a sweep of neutral shadow—far less than the job demanded, but more than I’d managed in a year. Myst insisted on calling it “escorting,” a delicate word for a brutal reality. Money for sex. The old adage that beggars can’t be choosers echoed in my head; I had no other path.

I tugged at the hem of the only dress I owned besides a uniform—a sleeveless, black V-neck that grazed mid-thigh. It was a castoff from my pre-fugitive life, bought years ago at a high-end boutique in London I could now only dream of. The designer label glimmered mockingly inside the seam. Too formal, too sleek, yet it offered enough cleavage to satisfy Myst’s exacting standards. After spending my last won on a room for Myst, this dress and the lie it represented were all I had left.

The elevator shuddered to a halt and my stomach arrived a half-second later. Bryson’s presence seemed to press against my shoulders even here. I became suddenly aware of my own breathing, too loud, too deliberate, like I was reminding myself how. I pressed my palms flat against my thighs. Ding. The doors sighed open.

I stepped onto the plush carpet of the penthouse hallway and was quickly overwhelmed by two statuesque figures: bodyguards in tailored black suits, crisp white shirts, obsidian ties. Their muscular frames were draped in the kind of expensive fabric that whispered power. The one on the left—my mind already naming him “Thing 1”—was classically handsome, his jet-black hair slicked back, eyes unreadable. The other, “Thing 2,” was broader-shouldered, with a shock of stylishly tousled red hair that lent him a rough, dangerous edge. Both wore earpieces; both looked ready to draw weapons at the slightest provocation.

Thing 1 lifted a hand in a silent halt. “Miss, you can’t be on this floor,” he said in clipped Korean, his voice low and gravelly. My cheeks burned. Pride was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Survival came first.

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “My agency sent me. They said to tell you…room 3400. And that his grandfather requested me.” My words felt soiled on my tongue, each one a new level of personal hell. An escort. For a family member. Heat crawled up my neck, a desperate prayer for the floor to simply open and swallow me.

Thing 2 smirked, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. Thing 1 spoke into his mic: “Sir, another escort is here for you. Umm… Yes. Your grandfather sent her.” I heard a spray of curses from the earpiece. My heart sank—twenty thousand dollars now evaporating in a torrent of expletives. So much for my escape plan. This career would begin and end tonight.

Thing 1 surprised me: he waved me forward. His tone softened, almost conspiratorial. “Go on down the hallway. Be careful… don’t piss him off.”

The hotel corridor seemed to stretch forever, its floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering Seoul skyline. Between each pane, vast abstract paintings swirled with greens and blues, whispering of a peace I could no longer afford. The images of tranquil oceans and misty meadows taunted me, a life I’d once known. Forcing my gaze away from a past that ached in my chest, I focused on the mahogany door at the far end of the hall.

A sharp twist in my ankle yanked me back to reality. My borrowed heels—too large despite the wadded tissue in the toes—turned traitorous. I almost pitched forward, cheeks aflame, but caught myself. Still, no sign of the guards. Had they vanished already?

At last, I reached the heavy mahogany door marked 3400. The metal bell refused to respond beneath my trembling finger, swallowed by the room’s unheard hush. Then the door swung open, and there he was.

I didn’t have words. The world seemed to stop on its axis.

Light spilled from behind him, framing a silhouette that filled the doorframe, leaving no room for anything else. As he moved, the details sharpened: black hair in soft waves, a jaw strong enough to cut marble, a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the forearm. I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and saw they were a deep, glowing red. Even in my borrowed heels, the top of my head barely reached his shoulder; he was a monolith of quiet power, and I was in his shadow.

I stood there stunned as his eyes roamed over me with cold assessment. God. The intensity. He was the kind of man women dreamed of having sex with at least once, and men envied—a prime alpha who would reduce Thing 1 and Thing 2 to trembling pups.

I must have looked as stunned as I felt, because he rolled his eyes slightly, annoyance flickering across his face. “Leave,” he said in Korean. His voice was deep, with a hint of gravel that seemed to vibrate right through the floor.

I forced a smile, attempting a sultry tilt of my head. Steeling myself, I responded in the most formal Korean I could manage. “Hi, I’m Myst. Your grandfather sent me.” My voice came out crackly like dry wood in a storm.

He huffed, then, responding in English, said, “Not interested. Leave.” He produced a slender gold money clip, flicked it open, and let a stack of crisp bills flutter at my feet. His dismissal burned me hotter than embarrassment.

I turned to go, forcing my shoulders back into a stride that felt like a lie. The bills were scattered on the polished floor like fallen leaves. I bent to gather them, my hair—a faded auburn curtain—swinging forward to block my view. As I straightened, the cash clutched in my hand, I found him standing right there. He’d moved without a sound, and now he loomed over me, blocking my path to the door. The world narrowed to the sudden, breathless space between us.

The world tilted. I stumbled back, my balance gone, only to be caught against a chest as solid as stone. Strong arms encircled me, halting my fall. His face was suddenly inches from mine, his breath warm against my throbbing forehead. In the depths of his crimson eyes, something shifted—a flicker of an emotion I couldn’t name, sharp and startling, before his gaze shuttered closed again.

“I may have been a bit rash,” he murmured, his voice low. His hands steadied my shoulders, his grip firm but not unkind. The wadded tissue in my too-large heels crinkled loudly as I found my footing. Then his scent hit me—not just smoky wood and spice, but sandalwood and bergamot, rich and dark—and it coiled low behind my sternum, a hook pulling deep in my gut.

His fingers unfolded mine where I’d been clutching the cash, his thumb brushing over my palm. The touch was electric, intimate. A surprised sound caught in my throat, half-gasp, half-moan, which I choked back just in time.

His gaze raked over me, nostrils flaring as if he were inhaling my very essence. A surge of pheromones pulsed between us. An invisible current. My breath hitched, and I felt the dizzying telltale flush all the way in my core. Then he asked, his voice low: “Are you an omega?”

My pulse thundered in my ears. Myst’s profile listed me as a recessive omega, a convenient half-truth that didn’t begin to cover the reality of what I was. The lie caught in my throat, but my voice still emerged in a breathless whisper: “Yes.” He held my hand, eyes burning ruby in the dim hall light, as if he could read the secrets I was keeping.

At last, he released me and turned away, expectant. “Join me for a drink,” he said over his shoulder, the single command curling around my ribs. A hot, sharp knot of defiance twisted in my gut. He thought he could summon and dismiss me. But survival was an older instinct. My hand tightened on the bills—was it even enough? Escaping now, with so little, meant I’d be back on the street in days, an easy target for Bryson. His sheer presence was a physical weight, and his scent—that dark, smoky sandalwood—coiled in my lungs. My feet, still aching in the ill-fitting heels, carried me forward into the room.

Numb with a mix of fear and longing, I followed him through the polished wooden doors. Beyond lay his lair, all dragon-hearth opulence gleaming with gold and dark wood. In that decadent glow, I knew I was stepping not toward a transaction, but into something far more perilous. My borrowed heels sank into a plush silk rug, each step muffled yet deafening. Gold-leafed dragons twisted up the legs of antique furniture, their jeweled eyes following my progress. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Seoul glittered like a spilled necklace far below. He paused, his broad shoulders blocking the way as he turned to watch me, those impossible crimson eyes catching the firelight like polished garnets. Every instinct screamed to run, but the pull in my chest—deeper than fear, older than reason—drew me forward into the dragon’s den.