The blue light of the smartphone was the only thing illuminating the penthouse, a cold, clinical glow that matched the interior of Julian Miller's chest. Outside, the city skyline glittered like fallen diamonds, a sprawling empire he'd spent a decade building, but Julian didn't look out the floor-to-ceiling windows anymore. Viewpoints were for poets and fools. He was neither.
He swiped left. Too eager. He swiped left again. Too polished.
Six months ago, his world had been a different color. He'd been looking at wedding registries and custom-tailored tuxedos. He would have been tucked into silk sheets with a woman he thought was his soulmate, discussing flower arrangements for a gala that was supposed to be the beginning of their "forever." Instead, he had walked into that same bedroom—his sanctuary—to find her tangled in those same sheets with a man whose name Julian hadn't even bothered to learn. The image was burned into his retinas: the tangled limbs, the look of panicked guilt on her face, and the shattering of every foundation he'd ever stood upon.
The betrayal hadn't just broken his heart; it had cauterized it.
Since that night, Julian had turned his personal life into a series of efficient, high-end transactions. He had slept with more women in six months than he had in the previous six years. Models, heiresses, socialites—women who understood the language of silence. They wanted the prestige of being seen with him; he wanted the oblivion of their bodies. There were no breakfast dates, no lingering kisses, and absolutely no names saved in his contacts. He was a man who lived in the "now," because the "before" was a graveyard and the "after" was a threat.
He took a slow sip of a single-malt scotch that cost more than most people made in a month, feeling the burn slide down his throat. He needed a distraction tonight. The silence in the penthouse was getting too loud, echoing with the ghost of a laugh he was trying to forget.
He opened Apex—the dating app where the "verified" checkmark required a net worth most people couldn't count to. He'd used it a dozen times, finding women who were as polished and cynical as he was. But tonight, the algorithm felt stale. It was all the same pouty lips and private jets.
Until he saw her.
Amelia. The photo wasn't a professional headshot or a filtered bikini pose on a yacht in Ibiza. It was a grainy, slightly blurred selfie taken in what looked like a dim office breakroom. She was holding a lukewarm-looking coffee mug, a stray strand of dark hair escaping a messy bun that had clearly seen better days. But her eyes—wide, amber, and bone-deep exhausted—looked directly into the camera with a raw, jagged defiance that stopped his breath.
Bio: Just looking for one night of someone else's reality. No strings. No sequels. I have an 8:00 AM meeting and a landlord who doesn't take 'vibes' as rent.
Julian felt a familiar spark of corporate interest, the kind he felt when he spotted an undervalued asset. She was a "secretary," according to her profile. A "temp." She was everything his world usually filtered out. She was "poor" by his standards, struggling by hers, and utterly, refreshingly uninterested in the long-term. There was no mention of "finding the one" or "exploring the city." She wanted an exit strategy, just like him.
He swiped right.
The screen flashed: IT'S A MATCH.
He didn't hesitate. He typed with the same clinical precision he used to hostilely take over tech firms, his fingers moving over the glass with a practiced coldness.
"My driver is ten minutes from your door. I don't need your name, Amelia. Just your address."
He watched the "typing" bubbles dance for a long, agonizing minute. He expected a coy reply, a request for more photos, or perhaps a nervous joke. He'd dealt with all of them. Instead, a single line appeared.
"Make it five minutes. I'm already wearing my coat."
Forty minutes later, the private elevator hummed as it ascended to the top floor. When the doors slid open, Julian was standing by the wet bar, his back to the entrance. He didn't turn immediately. He liked the power of the silence, the way it forced the other person to fill the void with their nerves.
"You have a lot of glass," a voice said.
It wasn't the breathy, rehearsed tone he was used to. It was low, slightly raspy, and sounded like she'd spent the day arguing with a photocopier.
Julian turned. Amelia was smaller than she'd looked in the photo, swallowed by a wool coat that had seen better winters. She stood in the center of his marble foyer, looking less like a guest and more like a survivor who had accidentally stumbled into a palace. She didn't look impressed by the original Basquiat on the wall or the custom-designed chandelier. She looked like she was calculating the cost of the heating bill.
"It helps me see who's coming," Julian said, his gaze raking over her.
Up close, she was even more striking. The amber in her eyes was flecked with gold, and despite the dark circles under them, there was a fire there that burned brighter than any socialite's diamond.
"And who's leaving?" she asked, her chin tilting upward.
Julian felt a flicker of something—not love, he was done with that—but a sharp, jagged curiosity. "Especially those."
He walked toward her, the sound of his Italian leather shoes clicking against the stone. He stopped just inches away, close enough to smell the faint scent of vanilla and cheap laundry detergent. It was a dizzying change from the heavy, expensive perfumes that usually filled his bedroom.
"No strings, Amelia?" he murmured, his voice dropping an octave.
"No strings," she whispered. She didn't look away. She didn't blush. She looked at him with the honesty of someone who had nothing left to lose. "I just want to forget that tomorrow is Monday. I want to forget that I'm three weeks behind on my car payment. Just for a few hours."
Julian reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin was soft, a stark contrast to the hardness of his world. He had slept with a hundred women since the betrayal, but as he leaned down, his lips brushing against hers, he felt a jolt that had nothing to do with the scotch.
It was supposed to be a transaction. A distraction. Another name to add to the list of the forgotten.
But as he lifted her into his arms, Julian Miller had no idea that for the first time in six months, he was about to lose control of the narrative.