Just say the word’I love you’

The rain hit the pavement like it wanted to hurt something. I pulled my coat tighter, but it didn't help. The cold had long since settled into my bones. Milan in October doesn't pretend to be kind-not to girls like me. Especially not at midnight, walking home from a job that barely paid enough to keep the lights on.

There's a certain weight to knowing you've run out of options. It makes every decision sharper, heavier. That's how the card felt when I found it, slipped into my locker at the gallery. Thick cream paper. Gold trim. No name. No contact number. Just an address and a time.

"If you're ready for something more."

I wasn't ready. Not really. But desperation is a louder voice than fear.

So when my phone buzzed that night-an unknown number, a simple message: Your car is waiting-I didn't ask questions.

The car was exactly where the message said it would be. Black. Polished. Completely out of place in my neighborhood. The driver didn't look at me. Just unlocked the door.

I got in.

We drove in silence through the city, the windows tinted too dark to see out. Twenty minutes passed. Maybe thirty. I lost count somewhere between guilt and adrenaline. Finally, we turned down a narrow road lined with marble walls and hedges cut too clean to be anything but old money.

When we stopped, the driver opened my door without a word.

The building in front of me looked like a museum. Or a mausoleum.

No sign. No lights. Just two towering oak doors that opened without a knock.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of rosewater and something darker-leather, maybe. The lighting was low, golden. Like it was trying to hide something.

A woman stood near a long mahogany table. She looked like she stepped out of a high-end fashion editorial-tailored black suit, slicked-back hair, not a single thing out of place. Her eyes met mine, unreadable.

"Mr. Cavalli requests your full attention," she said. "This meeting will last exactly one hour. After that, the offer expires."

I swallowed. My voice sounded small when I spoke. "Offer?"

She smiled. It didn't reach her eyes. "He prefers to explain that part himself."

She stepped aside, revealing a single cream folder on the table.

Then she left me there. Alone.

I stared at the folder, heart hammering in my chest. My fingers twitched at my sides.

Mr. Cavalli.

I'd heard the name. Everyone had. Adrian Cavalli-billionaire. Head of Cavalli International. Luxury, fashion, real estate, tech. Old money made new. Ruthless, brilliant, always in control. The kind of man who could buy entire cities and never blink.

And now, apparently, the kind of man who wanted to meet me.

I didn't move.

The folder sat on the table like it was watching me, breathing in sync with the clock I couldn't hear but felt ticking beneath my skin.

My feet felt glued to the floor, my heels wet from the rain, my thoughts louder than anything else in the room.

What are you doing here, Selena?

You were supposed to be better than this.

Not someone who answers mysterious messages from faceless billionaires. Not someone who puts on her cleanest thrift-store blouse and sits quietly in a luxury car like it's not all ridiculous. Not someone who stares at a blank folder and wonders what it might cost her to open it.

But I was.

I was exactly that girl.

Because I'd run out of ways to be anything else.

The thing no one tells you about being desperate is that it doesn't come all at once. It creeps in slowly, like mold behind walls. First it's the overdue rent. Then it's the gallery slashing hours. Then it's your brother calling because he needs books for school and your heart breaking when you have to lie.

Then one day, you're standing in a room like this, trying to pretend you still have a choice.

I crossed the floor slowly, the heels of my boots muted against the plush rug beneath me. The folder was perfectly aligned with the edge of the table-centered, clean, waiting.

I didn't open it.

Instead, I looked around.

Whoever designed this place understood power. The lighting was deliberately warm, inviting-but the furniture was sharp, modern, cold. Gold accents. Black marble. Deep leather chairs spaced too far apart to feel safe. Every detail said, You're not in control here.

And still, I stood.

This wasn't just about money. I'd been poor before. I could survive it again. But this-this felt like something else. Like a line I wouldn't be able to uncross.

The door behind me remained closed. The silence settled in layers.

What kind of man sends a car for a stranger?

What kind of man leaves no name, no information, just a whisper of an opportunity and a room designed to make you question everything about yourself?

Adrian Cavalli wasn't offering a job.

He was offering ownership.

And somehow, I already knew-I was the thing on the table for sale.

Still, I didn't run.

Because something deeper than fear whispered to me in that moment-something ugly and aching and quietly starved.

You want to know what it feels like to be chosen.

Even if it's by a man like him.

I didn't hear the door open.

I only felt it-the sudden shift in the air. The silence rearranged itself, heavier now, electric.

I turned slowly.

He stood there like he belonged in shadows.

Adrian Cavalli. He didn't need an introduction. His presence made the room feel smaller, like gravity had tripled just for him. He was tall-maybe six-two-but it wasn't the height that made you straighten your spine. It was the way he looked at you. Like he already knew what you were going to say. Like he had no use for it anyway.

He wore black-of course he did. A tailored three-piece suit, crisp and precise, but without the gaudy logos men of his wealth usually flaunted. His jacket had a matte finish. His shirt, deep charcoal. No tie. The top button undone, like even rules bent around him.

His hair was dark, swept back carelessly in that way that took calculated effort. Not a single strand out of place. His face... sharp. Unsmiling. Sculpted cheekbones, a jaw like it could cut glass. And those eyes-

Grey. Not silver. Not steel. Grey like smoke that could either warm or choke you, depending on how close you stood.

He didn't smile. Didn't offer a hand. Just looked at me like I was a painting he'd seen before and wasn't quite sure he liked.

"Selena Valez," he said.

His voice was low, smooth, and quiet-but it didn't need volume to command. It coiled into the air, silk over steel.

"You came."

I swallowed. "You sent a car."

"Cars get ignored every day. You didn't ignore it."

He stepped closer, but not too close. There was a precision to his movements, like everything about him had been rehearsed in mirrors. "That means something."

"It means I'm broke," I said, bracing myself for the crack of disapproval.

But instead, he smiled.

It was small. Dangerous. A flicker of something that wasn't warmth, but wasn't quite cruelty either. Like he liked the honesty.

"Good. Desperation makes people honest. And honesty," he said, circling toward the table, "makes negotiation cleaner."

He gestured to the chair across from the folder. "Sit."

I didn't move. "You still haven't told me what this is."

"And yet you're still here."

He said it like a compliment-and a warning.

Reluctantly, I walked to the chair and sat. He stayed standing. Hovered behind me at first, then rounded the table slowly, like a lion deciding if he wanted to eat or admire what was in front of him.

He opened the folder.

Inside: ten pages. Neatly clipped. Typed.