"Hey!" Charlotte grit her teeth, her breath catching in her throat. Her bank account was a wasteland of barely three thousand dollars. How on earth am I supposed to foot a bill for hundreds of thousands?

"Don’t tell me you’re short on cash?" Wesley leaned in, his shadow looming over her. "You could always ask for my help, Charlotte. One night with me, and the bill disappears. Not to mention, with my protection, no one in this office would dare breathe a word against you..."

Slap! Before Wesley could finish his proposition, Charlotte’s palm connected squarely with his face. "Scum!" she hissed.

Wesley touched his stinging cheek. Instead of exploding in anger, he let out a low, perverse chuckle. "That’s the first time you’ve touched me. Your hands are even softer than I imagined."

"You are a disgusting piece of shit!" Charlotte turned on her heel and stalked away, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"If you don't pay that bill today, your colleagues will eat you alive!" Wesley shouted after her, his voice echoing down the hall. "They’ll ostracize you, treat you like a plague. Do you really want to risk losing this job on your first week?"

Charlotte walked through the corridors in a state of dejection. She couldn't lose this job—it was her only lifeline. But where could she conjure up that kind of money in an hour?

She was lost in a fog of desperation when a figure in a private suite ahead caught her eye.

The door was partially ajar. Inside, a man sat on a sofa, his broad, straight back turned to her. He was mid-change, his white shirt draped around his waist. There, etched into the skin of his lower back, was the unmistakable, vicious howl of a wolf—and a long, jagged scar that hadn't been there before.

It’s him!

Charlotte froze. The air seemed to vanish from the room.

The last time she’d seen him, she’d been too stunned to speak, and he had vanished before she could find her voice. But now, the man who had catalyzed the destruction of her life was standing right in front of her.

Looking at that tattoo, the past four years flashed before her eyes like a horror movie: The moment she woke up in the hospital only to find her father was already cold in the crematorium; the funeral where her own flesh and blood spat at her and chased her away; the sneers of strangers at the rural clinic when they saw her pregnant and alone; the night she nearly bled to death giving birth to triplets.

It was all his fault.

Fury, hot and blinding, surged through her. She clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white and stormed into the room.

"Hey! Get out. This is a private area," a voice barked. A man in black—a bodyguard—stepped out from the corner, his expression stern.

The mysterious man on the sofa simply raised a hand. At that silent command, the bodyguard bowed his head and retreated without a word.

Charlotte was momentary stunned. Bodyguards? Gigolos are making enough to hire muscle now? It seems he’s been living the high life while I was rotting in the countryside!

She swallowed her agitation and stepped closer, her voice trembling with repressed rage. "Is it you?"

The man slowly buttoned his shirt, hiding the wolf from view. He turned around with a deliberate, predatory grace. His face was obscured by a black masquerade mask, leaving only his thin, cold lips and a pair of steely, enigmatic eyes visible. On the temple of the mask, a gold fire emblem glinted menacingly.

Charlotte instinctively recoiled. Why was his presence so suffocating? He was supposed to be a male escort, yet he carried the aura of a king. Did I get the wrong man? No... that tattoo is unmistakable.

"Don't you remember me?" Charlotte pressed, her voice rising. "Four years ago. Room K13 at Sultry Night. My friend hired an escort—you. We went to the Storm Hotel together—"

"There’s a small red mole on your left breast," the man interrupted, his voice a deep, silken baritone. He narrowed his eyes, tracking the movement of her throat. "And if I recall... we did it seven times that night."

"I'm going to kill you!" Charlotte lost all reason. She lunged forward, her arm swinging for a slap that would vent four years of misery.

But the man was faster. He caught her wrist mid-air with effortless strength and shoved her back onto the sofa. "You have a lot of nerve."

"Scum! Bastard!" Charlotte leaped back at him like a cornered wildcat, her nails raking through the air to scratch at his mask. "It's all your fault! You ruined my life! You took everything from me!" she roared, her voice breaking into a sob of pure, unadulterated rage.