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P eople think desperation is loud.

Chaotic.

That it shows up with flailing arms and slurred demands, reeking of booze and bad decisions.

But I know better.

Desperation is quiet.

Cold.

It creeps in when your stomach’s been empty for too long and the only warmth you know is the heat off a stolen router under your hoodie.

I learned that young, squatting in a gutted brownstone in Jersey, with nothing but a busted laptop and a chipped copy of Kali Linux to keep me company.

Turns out, I had a knack for making systems talk to me. Firewalls, encryptions, air-gapped networks—none of it could keep me out if I wanted in.

What started as survival turned into obsession, and obsession turned into a skill set that got me noticed by people who mattered.

People like my cousin Connor, who at one time owned the Callahan Protection Group.

People like Josef Aziz of Sigma International.

People like the Volkov brothers and Andres Ramirez.

These were the movers and shakers of the world.

They ran their empire from their tower in Manhattan.

Kind of like their own personal citadel. And I now had a seat at the table.

Me. A fucking nobody. A mongrel , as my asshole uncle once called me.

It wasn’t overnight.

It took years of ghosting through cyber backdoors, leaving fingerprints clean as bleach.

Then my cousin Connor sold his security firm to Sigma International, under the umbrella of Volkov Industries, and pulled me in.

I wasn’t looking to climb the ladder. I was just trying to stay out of the light.

But those in power had other plans for me.

One week I was an off-the-books ghost behind their firewalls—breaking in, making a mess of their so-called protection.

Next, I was plugging holes, optimizing protocols, and patching exploits they didn’t know existed.

Now, I’m in a tailored suit I didn’t ask for, sitting in a glass-walled boardroom with a view of the skyline and a black card with my name on it.

Balor Cruz.

Board Member.

Crazy, right?

Oh, and that’s Balor like sailor .

None of that Irish fada explanation shit everyone online is so fucking crazy about.

Wrong pronunciation or not, my mother called me Balor, and that’s my fucking name.

I should be proud.

But I feel like a fucking fraud.

Because no matter how high I climb, I can’t forget who I am.

A fatherless scamp from the wrong side of the tracks.

Raised by shadows and silence.

Taught by hunger, molded by grit.

What makes it worse?

What makes the fact of my parentage even fucking harder to swallow?

I can’t stop looking at her.

Lucy Volkov.

Marat Volkov’s firstborn daughter. Heiress to a tech empire that spans continents. She walks like the world owes her space, and it gives it willingly .

She’s every inch a goddess in heels and silk. Regal without trying. Unattainable without effort.

The kind of woman who turns heads and doesn’t even notice anymore.

The kind of woman who smiles like she knows all your secrets— and isn’t afraid to use them if you step out of line.

One flash of those sapphire blue eyes, and I’m wrecked.

The slightest glimpse of her creamy skin, and my entire body locks up like it’s been shocked.

Her hair, dark as midnight, falls in thick, silky waves down her back, like a cloak spun from ink.

I think about running my fingers through it more times than I care to admit.

Her lips? Full. Pink. Dangerous.

They frown when she’s concentrating, and fuck if it doesn’t make me want to smooth the line away with my thumb.

But the second she catches someone watching, they perk up into a practiced smile. The kind that makes you wonder if you imagined the frown at all.

She’s not a tease.

She’s just stunning.

Effortless and electric all at once.

And I never realized how much work goes into being that beautiful until I started watching her.

And yeah— I watch her. Like a hawk. Like a fool.

Even when she’s exhausted, even when the eyes of strangers cling to her like smoke, she holds herself together.

Smiles. Says thank you. Keeps her chin high and her tone polite.

I can see the toll it takes.

But she never complains.

She’s grace in motion. Strength in a silk blouse.

And fuck, she’s too good for me.

Too polished.

Too brilliant.

Too real.

Smart as hell, too.

Not just a face. Not just a figure.

She’s a woman who reads contracts with a red pen and negotiates like she’s playing chess five moves ahead.

She sees through people. Cuts through bullshit like a scalpel.

She should be with someone worthy.

Someone who doesn’t flinch when he looks in the mirror.

Someone without mismatched eyes and a chip on his shoulder the size of a glacier.

Not a ghost in the machine like me.

But none of that changes the fact that I want her.

More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

And that right there?

That’s the real danger.

Because from the moment I see her, I know I’m done.

Finished. Cooked.

She’s the only distraction I can’t encrypt or firewall away.

Too beautiful.

Too kind.

Too goddamn dangerous for someone like me.

So far, I manage to keep my distance.

Even after she asks me to dinner.

Yeah, I was shocked too.

I can still see her the day she invited me.

Her lips curl around a joke about sweet desserts and late-night cravings, and I nearly lose control.

I tell her no. Lie through my fucking teeth and say I’m not interested.

Truth is, I had to say no. I didn’t trust myself to survive a night with her.

She deserves a man with a penthouse and a clean conscience.

Not a reformed street rat with a rap sheet longer than a Walmart receipt and a soul coded in regret.

Then comes the music video.

Some reggaetón superstar motherfucker with diamond grills and wandering hands.

He’s the kind of guy who gets off on flashing cash and licking microphones, and for some reason, the world eats it up.

He sees her at a charity gala her father drags her to—one of those high-profile events with overpriced tickets and shallow speeches. Lucy shows up looking like sin wrapped in silk, and this asshole decides she’s his next muse.

Writes a whole damn song about her.

A “tribute.”

A love letter disguised as a club banger.

Then he asks her to be in the video. And she says yes.

It happens fast. Too fast.

Right after I turned her down.

I can’t prove it, not really. But I know she did it on purpose.

Not to hurt me. Not really.

But because she’s human. And humans don’t like rejection.

She’s had offers before.

Modeling gigs. Commercials. Cameos.

She usually turns them down. Says no with a polite smile.

But this time?

She said yes.

And now I’m being fucking haunted by that song.

By that goddamn video.

It’s everywhere. Trending. Viral. People are making reaction clips and thirst edits, and I swear if I see one more slowed-down version of her twirling in that fucking dress, I might snap.

Every time I close my eyes, she’s there.

Lucy.

Dancing under flashing lights.

Glitter on her shoulders. That dress clinging to her body like it was sewn onto her skin.

Moving like temptation incarnate while the beat pulses and that asshole watches her like she belongs to him.

She doesn’t.

But she could’ve.

She offered herself to me— sweet and soft and real —and I told her no.

Because I’m a fucking coward.

Because I don’t trust myself not to fall so hard I forget who I am.

Now the whole damn internet is thirsting in the comments, dropping fire emojis and marriage proposals, while I sit in the shadows with my jaw clenched hard enough to crack enamel.

She’s not mine.

Never was.

But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to burn the whole damn world down every time someone calls her their fantasy.

Because she’s mine in all the ways that matter.

And one day?

One day I might stop pretending otherwise.

But hey—I turned her down.

Now I have to learn to live with the repercussions of my one fatal error.

What the hell did I expect, anyway?