Chapter 1

There's something about a Wednesday night that makes you reckless. Maybe it's the dull ache of midweek boredom settling in like fog, or the quiet loneliness that creeps under your skin when the week stretches ahead, too long and too empty. Or maybe, just maybe, it's the way the bar lights flicker low, half-hearted, as if they're trying to keep secrets.

Whatever it was, I found myself swirling the amber liquid in my glass, pretending I wasn't the only one nursing a little chaos. My friend had already vanished after two tequila shots—probably off chasing her latest drama—and I was left alone with the dim hum of a half-empty bar and the slow burn of whiskey that tasted too sharp for a weeknight.

I wasn't looking for anything. No grand escape, no sparks flying. Just a break from the carefully measured life I'd been living—the notes, the deadlines, the endless pressure to be perfect. I'd worn the easiest thing in my closet: a cropped black sweater that just grazed my waist, a high-waisted skirt that gave me some edge, and boots that gave me a little extra height and a lot of misplaced confidence. My hair was still softly curled from earlier, loose strands framing my face, mascara clinging stubbornly to my lashes even though I'd long stopped checking.

I was minding my own damn business, scrolling through my phone, when he walked in.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in a charcoal coat that looked like it belonged to someone who never wasted time in places like this. His jaw was rough with stubble, not the lazy kind but the kind that made you wonder how much effort it took to look that effortlessly good. He didn't scan the room like a tourist looking for an escape; he seemed like he was carrying the weight of something heavier—something serious.

He ordered a whiskey, neat. Sat two stools away from me, head bowed slightly, staring into the glass like he was trying to erase memories with every sip.

I wasn't going to talk to him. But I also wasn't going to not talk to him.

Leaning on my elbow, voice dripping with sarcasm, I finally broke the silence. "You always drink whiskey alone on a Wednesday?"

He didn't look up at first—just a small smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth, eyes still fixed on the amber liquid. "Only when I'm trying to forget something."

"Lucky for you, this place is great for that. Terrible for everything else."

His eyes flicked up and found mine—sharp, calculating, and damn near dangerous. It was the kind of look that told you he wasn't used to people talking to him like that. And maybe he didn't want it. But I saw something else there, too: a flicker of amusement, and maybe... appreciation.

"I could say the same about you."

The words hung in the air, sparking an unspoken challenge. That was the first spark. And from there, it just burned.

We talked. At first, it was nothing—small talk about music, books we pretended we liked, drinks we hated. But with every word, every glance, the distance between us shrank. His voice was low, smooth, with a rough edge that made my pulse quicken without permission. There was wit there, too—sharp, intelligent, like he was teasing a secret he didn't want to give away.

I leaned closer, despite the warning bells ringing in my head. It wasn't just the liquor making me reckless—it was the way he made me feel seen. Not as the good girl with straight A's or the student with a complicated life. Just me. Flawed. Human. Dangerous.

The way his hand brushed over the counter, lingering just a little too long. The way his eyes held mine, dark and unreadable.

When he asked if I wanted to leave with him, I should've said no. Should've laughed it off, walked away like the smart girl I was supposed to be.

But I said yes.

His apartment was a contradiction. Minimalist, clean lines, but with an undeniable masculine weight to everything. Heavy furniture, bookshelves stacked with titles I pretended I'd read, a dim glow from a floor lamp that made shadows dance across the walls. It was a world that wasn't mine, but suddenly felt like a dangerous kind of home.

The moment the door shut behind me, he was in my hair. His hands tangled in the soft waves I hadn't bothered to fix after class, pulling me toward him with an urgency that took my breath away.

He kissed me like he was starving—like every second without me had been a slow torture. My sweater slipped off before we even made it to the hallway, his mouth finding the delicate skin at my throat. I wasn't sure if I was moaning or pleading. His hands roamed everywhere, possessive but careful, like he was memorizing me.

He undressed me slowly, reverently. His lips traced paths down my body that set my skin on fire. My skirt hit the floor, and his mouth followed, leaving a trail of heat I couldn't shake. I was trembling under his touch, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing holding me together.

When he finally carried me to bed, it wasn't rushed or messy or the desperate thing I'd expected. It was slow, deliberate, every movement heavy with meaning. His voice was low in my ear—"You feel like sin"—and I believed every word.

He held me afterward, like he couldn't let go even when the fire had burned low.

We fell asleep tangled in his sheets, the city's hum a quiet lullaby outside the window.

I never asked his name.

Morning came too soon.

I slipped out before the sun had fully risen, heels in hand, heart still pounding from the night's heat. No note. No number. Just the ghost of his touch lingering on my skin and the ache that wouldn't quit.

I had class at noon—first day of the semester, a new elective. Advanced Media Ethics. Not my major, but I needed the credits.

I pulled my hair back into a messy bun, dressed down in a loose sweater and jeans, clutching my coffee like it was a lifeline.

I tried not to think about last night.

But fate has a cruel sense of humor.

The door to the lecture hall opened.

And there he was.

Black button-down, dark jeans, the same smirk that haunted my dreams.

He dropped a leather folder on the desk, eyes sweeping the room.

"I'm Professor Dante Maddox. Welcome to Ethics."

No. Fucking. Way.

My jaw hit the floor.

I felt heat flood my cheeks. Heart thumping like a trapped bird. My coffee threatened to spill in my hands.

His eyes caught mine—and for a heartbeat, I swear, I saw that flicker. Recognition. Surprise. Something raw and unguarded before it disappeared behind a mask of professionalism.

He didn't look at me again—not once during the lecture. His voice was steady, articulate, cold.

But when class ended and everyone filed out, I didn't move.

Neither did he.

The room felt smaller suddenly—too small for all the unspoken words swirling between us.

The door clicked shut behind the last student.

"I didn't know," I said quietly.

His gaze found mine.

"I didn't either," he said, voice lower, rougher.

"We can't—"

"I know."

Neither of us moved.

The air was thick, electric, sharp enough to cut through the rules we both knew.

I hated how badly I wanted him. How his gaze made my skin itch.

"I should go," I said, standing.

"You should," he said, stepping closer.

But I didn't.

And neither did he.

There was something about that moment that changed everything. The quiet tension that buzzed like electricity in the air. The way our proximity made it impossible to think straight.

I hated that he irritated me. That I wanted to push him away but was drawn in by the fire in his eyes.

He was the line I wasn't supposed to cross.

And yet, here we were.

The tangled mess of forbidden attraction, sharp edges, and the promise of something dangerous.

He lifted a hand, hesitating near my face, like the slightest touch might shatter us both.

I closed my eyes.

I was already lost.