Reaching my tower — the entire business world I'd built, the MK empire carved from half a lifetime of blood, sweat, and sheer will — I finally allowed myself a moment to rest in my office.
My assistant's words barely registered as I rubbed my forehead, trying to chase away the throbbing headache.
"Boss, I'm sorry to bring this up, but, Mr. Old Ember tried to contact you again. I've handled it," Marcus said cautiously.
I didn't even look at him. My anger flared, then I forced it down, gave a short nod, and dismissed him.
Alone, leaning back in my chair, my mind drifted — as it often did — to the past.
Mother died when I was seventeen.
Just four months after she fell ill, she was gone. My father, that so-called man, had remarried almost immediately, living happily with his "other woman" while cheating behind my mother's back. Mother died believing he loved her forever. And he? He didn't even glance back. Left me alone with a small fortune to never bother him.
Seventeen years old. Alone. Angry. Hungry. I turned that money into my weapon. Within five years, I had taken every scrap of my father's empire — employees, collaborators, partnerships — and built it into my own. MK was now a brand. A name people whispered with respect, or jealousy.
My so-called cousins? Always crawling back for favors or cash. Acting like the helpless little me, who once ran to them for shelter, never existed.
And my father? Now that his empire falters, he remembers he has a son — and suddenly wants to contact me. Pathetic. Love, I still don't know what it feels like. I had flings, meaningless affairs, a few distractions, but nothing serious. Everyone wanted MK, not Mayhem. And honestly? I thought I was fine that way. I had money. Power. Recognition. That was enough.
Until I got home that night.
The smell hit me first. Sharp. Acrid. Unmistakable. Smoke curling up into the ceiling vents. The kitchen. My kitchen. On fire.
"What the hell did you do?!" I snapped, loosening my tie and unbuttoning a few top buttons of my suit as I rushed to the kitchen. There he was — Lavrick, frantically dousing a burning pan in the sink, looking far too innocent and ridiculously happy for someone who had almost burned down my kitchen.
"Oh! You're back. Don't worry, your kitchen isn't actually on fire. I just, got distracted while cooking for the moment and forgot to lower the heat," he said, giving an awkward chuckle.
I narrowed my eyes at him, unimpressed by the clumsy excuse. And then I noticed the TV in the corner of the kitchen.
A video was playing — one of my old business talks. Paused at the moment where I was sitting in my chair, legs crossed, calm but sharp-eyed, aura radiating power like a king surveying his kingdom. I remembered it well: my first big award, when everyone said I couldn't do it alone. My dark hair swept to the side, expression cold and calculated, the perfect mix of arrogant pride and ruthless focus. And he had been staring at it, long enough to burn dinner?
"Why the hell are you even staring at, this?" I asked, feeling a mix of disbelief and awkwardness.
"Why not?" he said, completely serious, as if reciting an equation. "You're just, so damn handsome. Beautiful. Magnificent. Gorgeous. Hot. Sexy. Miraculous. Breathtaking. Stunning. Perfect. My eyes, they just can't move."
Every word he said was like he was reading off the periodic table — precise, proud, and absurdly shameless.
Heat rushed to my face. My chest tightened in a way that scared me.
I snapped, voice slightly raised, "Shut up. Stop talking nonsense!"
"Okay," he nodded politely, still beaming as if he'd just been given permission to exist in my presence.
I snatched the remote from his hand and switched off the TV. "Now, tell me. What exactly were you doing?"
"Cooking!" he said, holding up a steaming bowl. "Look, I made Thai soup. Wanna try some?" The aroma hit me, and I admit, it smelled good. The presentation wasn't bad either.
"No thanks."
"Why not? Trust me, it's good. I'm a good cook. And I didn't add any weird things. Please trust me," he said, voice almost childlike, wide eyes fixed on mine.
I didn't doubt him. Not even a little. I just, didn't want to. Pride, I suppose.
"Fine. Only because I'm hungry," I muttered, looking away, trying to act cool as I sat down.
Lavrick practically leapt forward, hovering over the bowl. He even leaned in to blow on it for me, before my glare froze him mid-motion. Softly, he handed me the bowl, eyes still glued to mine.
"I'll gouge your eyes out if you stare at me one more time," I warned, pointing my spoon at him.
He flinched, nodding quickly, then looked away and grabbed his own bowl. He stirred it with exaggerated care, pretending to eat.
I took a slow breath, finally allowing myself to taste the soup. It had been a long time since I'd eaten something home-cooked. Sure, I had countless chefs preparing meals for me every day, but this? This had a warmth, a subtle homely comfort that gave me a strange, unfamiliar feeling.
I forced myself to ignore it. I didn't even notice it at first, but I was enjoying the soup more than I wanted to admit. Panic fluttered in my chest — how was I supposed to remain cold and untouchable when the warmth of something so simple made me feel, human? I sidled a glance at Lavrick. He still hadn't touched his own bowl. His face was expressionless, but his eyes, God, his eyes were fixed on me like I'd just walked into some sacred shrine. Pupils slightly dilated, focus intense, utterly uncontrolled. My chest tightened. That gaze sent a shiver crawling down my spine. I stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor, forcing him out of whatever trance he'd fallen into.
"Ah, um, it tasted good, didn't it?" he asked, sipping the soup awkwardly, cheeks tinged pink.
"So-so," I replied flatly, tugging at my cufflinks as I walked toward my desk, trying to regain composure.
My phone buzzed. I picked it up. Marcus's voice came in, cautious, slightly nervous: the old man—my father—kept calling, insisting he wanted to meet. I slammed the phone down, the rage bubbling instantly. Blood rushed to my head. I rubbed my forehead, furious.
annoyed, feeling my blood boil.
The stress and anger were almost too much to bear. I glanced at Lavrick, who looked simultaneously worried and wide-eyed, and asked, voice low, cutting through the tension: "Can you do it?"
"Do what?" His confusion made me smirk despite myself.
"Fuck." I said it flat, cold, solid.
His eyes went wide. His lips parted. Soup dripped from his mouth back into the bowl as if gravity itself had betrayed him. Good. I had made a fool of myself, sure. But my thoughts froze when, like a robot, he suddenly stood, placed the bowls carefully in the sink, and bolted upstairs without a word.
I blinked, startled. He really was taken off, maybe scared and disgusted by me. Of course he was. But I was too tense — I needed, release. I leaned against the table, scrolling through my phone to look for someone for the night. And then he returned. My eyes went to him in confusion. He looked, composed. Clean. As if he'd just washed up, yet there was a strange, controlled fire in the way he moved.
"Did you just wash up?" I asked, voice calm but curious.
"Yes. I just ate, so I needed to," he said, smiling that dumb, overly happy, too-excited smile. "I don't want to make our first time feel bad, not even for once."
He stepped closer, and suddenly his aura darkened. Wolfish. Predatory. The kind of heat that made my chest tighten and stomach twist. His eyes locked on mine, closer and closer, until there was no space between our noses, our breaths mingling.
"So, the question you asked," he whispered, voice low, deliberate, sultry, "is it still valid? Can I answer? I'll answer," he continued, words now dripping with depth and sensual intent. "Yes, I can. And I'll make sure you feel it, every part of it, inside and out."
Heat surged through me. A fire I'd never felt before, a hunger I couldn't control. His words, his presence, the aura of him ready to devour, it made every muscle in me tense and quake.
"Wait, really?" I asked, voice tight with disbelief.
He didn't answer with words. His eyes said it all, hotter and louder than anything he could have spoken.
I gulped, looking away, and rested a palm on his chest, trying to push him gently. "Don't joke with me, kid."
"I'm not. Twenty-five isn't kid, Mayhem," he said, and the way he said my name sent a jolt straight through me — powerful, intoxicating, claiming.
I swallowed hard. "Let me, go take a bath, then."
"No need," he murmured, voice low and teasing. "You already feel, tasty enough for me."
Goosebumps prickled over my skin. My pulse jumped as I realized just how deep I was letting myself fall. I finally locked eyes with him, my voice firmer: "Fine. Then, don't disappoint me."
"I won't," he whispered, smiling.
Before I could react, his wrist snaked to the back of my neck, pulling me into a kiss that exploded against my lips like fire. Hungry. Raw. Like he'd been craving this for ages.
There was a tension, a shock in him too — as if he could barely believe he was finally allowed this — before he poured everything into the kiss, as if his life depended on it.
I let myself melt into it, returning the kiss with equal intensity. I didn't know whether to be shocked, thrilled, or terrified. He was younger, yes, but there was something about him — the hunger, the precision, the unrestrained obsession — that pulled me in completely.
Before I realized it, his lips had wandered, leaving mine, tracing down my jaw and onto my chest. His hands found my hips, sliding between with possessive intent, daring and electric.
That night ended there — younger, wilder, and utterly exhausting, yet more pleasurable than anything I'd ever known. And in that moment, I understood: this was just the beginning of a very long, dangerously addictive ride.