The rain fell in a steady rhythm against the windows of Ethan Crawford's small, crumbling apartment. He sat on the edge of his worn-out couch, an eviction notice crumpled in his hand, and stared at the ceiling like it might offer him divine intervention. But the ceiling just dripped with water from a leaky pipe—another reminder of his crumbling life.
Twenty-four, jobless, and broke, Ethan was down to his last twenty dollars. He had tried everything: temp work, online gigs, and even begging his ex-girlfriend for a loan. Pride had long taken a backseat to survival.
He sighed, ran a hand through his wet, dark hair, and reached for his phone.
There was one person left. One last resort.
Vanessa Whitmore.
His aunt.
Technically, she wasn't his aunt by blood. Vanessa had married his mother's older brother years ago, but even after the divorce, she stayed part of the family in name. A billionaire fashion mogul with a reputation for ruthlessness and beauty in equal measure, she had never been close to Ethan. Their interactions were limited to holiday cards and the occasional check with a note that said, "Use this wisely."
Now, he was going to call her.
His thumb hovered over her contact.
"What's the worst that could happen?" he mumbled, then hit call.
The line rang once. Twice. Then—
"Vanessa Whitmore," a cool, husky voice answered.
"Aunt Vanessa? It's… Ethan. Crawford. I—uh—I'm in a bit of trouble."
There was a pause.
"I assumed as much," she replied smoothly. "No one calls me unless they're in trouble."
"I wouldn't ask unless I had to," he said quickly. "I lost my job. Can't pay rent. I've got nowhere to go."
Another pause. He could almost hear the clicking of her manicured nails.
"Come to my penthouse. Tonight."
Ethan blinked. "Are you serious?"
"I don't joke when someone's desperate enough to swallow their pride. I'll text you the address. Be here by 8. And Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
"Wear something decent. And don't look like a lost puppy when you arrive. I hate pity."
The line went dead.
---
By 8 PM, Ethan was stepping into the polished lobby of a building that screamed power and wealth. He wore his best—only—suit, a black button-up with no tie, and a nervous smile.
The doorman nodded, already expecting him, and ushered him to the private elevator. As the doors closed, Ethan felt the air shift. The climb was smooth, silent, almost surreal.
When the elevator doors opened, he stepped directly into the penthouse.
And there she was.
Vanessa.
She stood barefoot in the middle of her marble-floored living room, wearing a deep red silk robe that hugged her curves and left just enough of her long legs and collarbone exposed to make Ethan's throat go dry.
"You made it," she said, her voice like velvet.
Ethan swallowed hard. "Yeah. Thanks for… you know. Helping."
She walked toward him with the kind of grace that only came with power. Her eyes—dark, intelligent, and amused—roamed over him.
"You've grown up well," she murmured. "You look like your father, but softer."
"Is that a compliment?"
"An observation."
He followed her into a sitting area where a bottle of wine and two glasses waited on a black glass table.
"Sit," she commanded gently. "Drink."
Ethan obeyed. The wine was rich and smooth, nothing like the cheap stuff he used to buy when he had cash.
"So," she said, crossing her legs in front of him. The robe shifted with the motion, exposing the curve of her thigh. "Tell me why you're really here."
"I told you. I'm broke. I lost everything."
"No," Vanessa said. "That's what brought you here. I'm asking about why. Why me? Why now?"
Ethan looked into her eyes, realizing for the first time that he didn't fully understand the answer himself.
"I guess," he said slowly, "because you're the only person in the world who ever made me feel like… I could be something more. Even from afar."
She tilted her head. "Interesting."
The silence between them stretched—not awkward, but charged. Heavy with tension.
Vanessa leaned forward and poured him more wine, her robe slipping slightly.
"I'll let you stay here. For a while," she said. "But there are rules."
"Rules?"
"Of course." Her voice was low now. "No sloppiness. No self-pity. And no distractions."
"What kind of distractions?"
Vanessa's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. "The kind that make you forget who's in charge."
Ethan's breath caught. Was she… flirting?
No, it couldn't be. She was his aunt.
Sort of.
But as her eyes lingered on his lips and her fingers brushed his wrist, Ethan realized something: he wasn't imagining it.
The tension wasn't one-sided.
And something inside him—something reckless and curious—was beginning to stir.