Darren's footsteps echoed down the marble corridor, slow and deliberate, but inside him something pulsed like a storm straining against its cage. He didn't rattle easily. Men twice his age had quaked beneath his gaze, sworn loyalty with shaking hands. He had built an empire on calculation—on reading people in an instant and stripping them of illusions until only obedience remained.
But this morning had been different.
He could still hear her voice.
"One second I was celebrating my scholarship. The next, I was shoved in a car. Cheers to my fairy godmother."
Ophelia Smith. Dark hair. Sharp brown eyes. Twenty years old. Beautiful in a way that wasn't polished, but raw—untamed. And infuriating.
She should have been trembling when she faced him. Every other woman dragged into his orbit eventually did. The models, the mistresses, the casino hostesses—all of them bent quickly. They fluttered lashes, begged for favors, played the roles they knew he expected. They were ornaments, nothing more.
But not her.
She had sat in yesterday's clothes, fire in her eyes, mocking him with every barb. She had looked him in the eye as if he were just another man, not the king of Las Vegas's underworld.
He should have been angry. He should have ordered her dragged from the table for her insolence. Instead, he'd smirked. Even now, the memory tugged at his mouth. A dangerous thing—smiling at defiance.
The corridor stretched long and grand, lined with gilded frames and Italian sconces. His mansion was a fortress carved from the desert, built not simply to house him but to remind anyone who entered that Darren Delgado was untouchable. Casinos might glitter under neon lights, but this palace was his crown.
As he moved through it with the ease of a predator in his territory, guards straightened, men dipped their heads. Fear followed him like a shadow.
And yet his thoughts circled back to her.
Ophelia. The name clung to him. Delicate on the tongue, though she was anything but. She was jagged edges wrapped in soft skin. The way she had crossed her arms, lifted her chin, refused to play his game—it replayed like a challenge.
Most women sought survival in silence. Not her. She'd thrown her circumstances in his face like a dare.
And damn him, it had stirred something.
Not guilt—he'd buried that long ago, the day he learned the world respected only fear and power. No, what stirred in him was darker. Hungrier. Her sarcasm had slipped under his armor. Reminded him, uncomfortably, of his own beginnings—a kid clawing for scraps in a city that wanted him dead.
He'd bled and fought until he'd become untouchable. Sworn never to look back. But this slip of a girl was dragging those shadows to the surface.
Darren entered his study, pushing the heavy oak doors wide. The room smelled of leather, smoke, and order. A massive desk dominated the center, papers stacked neatly, screens glowing with streams of casino numbers. Money was steady. Predictable. It didn't talk back.
He dropped into the leather chair, boots on the desk, eyes flicking across the numbers. For a while he tried to drown himself in the rhythm of figures, the empire he had carved with his own hands.
But her voice intruded. Sarcastic. Alive. Free. Even here, in his house.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. And suddenly—unbidden—the past cracked open.
---
And suddenly—without warning—he was eleven again.
The orphanage smelled of bleach and old bread. The walls were gray, the blankets thinner. His shoes were gone—stolen the first night—and when he'd fought for them back, three boys bigger than him had pinned him down until his lip split and his ribs ached.
But it was the night before that branded him.
The night of the accident. His mother's body twisted on the asphalt, blood soaking through her blouse. He'd screamed until his throat tore, but no one came until the sirens. And even then, the paramedics didn't look at him. Just her.
She'd reached for him, her hand trembling, but her eyes—her eyes had been fading, slipping like sand through his fingers.
Then she was gone.
And the world had taught him something that night: no one comes to save you.
In the orphanage, he learned the second lesson. If you wanted to survive, you fight. He fought for scraps, for shoes, for respect.
The world respected fear, not tears. Power, not pleading. He'd never forget that.
---
A sharp knock at the door dragged him back. His eyes snapped open, fist tight against the leather armrest.
"Enter," he said, voice smooth, even.
One of his lieutenants stepped in, cautious, as if the room itself might bite. "Boss. The girl's in her room. Shall I assign more guards—"
"No." Darren's tone sliced like a blade. "Let her breathe. She'll fight harder if she feels the bars too soon."
The man hesitated. "And if she tries to run?"
A slow, dangerous smile curved Darren's mouth. "Let her. Where would she go? This is Vegas. Every street, every casino—mine. She can run until her feet bleed, but she won't escape me."
The lieutenant dipped his head and withdrew.
Silence pressed in again.
Darren leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He wouldn't admit it—not even to himself—but Ophelia was under his skin in a way no one else had been.
Her beauty wasn't painted on like the others. It was raw, defiant—like a blade hidden in plain sight. And God help him, he wanted to see if it would cut him.
He rose, crossed to the window, and stared out at the Vegas skyline, glittering like a jeweled crown in the desert sun. All of it was his. He had bled for it, clawed it from nothing.
He was king here. And kings didn't ask for loyalty. They demanded it.
But a thought crept in, unwelcome.
Her loyalty—if she ever gave it—would be worth more than every casino, every neon light in this city.
Not that he would ask. She would learn, as they all did. Until then, he would savor the fight.
A chuckle rumbled in his chest. "Let's see how long you can keep those claws out, pequeña gatita."
She thought she was here because of her stepmother's debts. That was the story she'd been fed, and he'd let her keep it—for now. A lie was a softer cage than the truth.
When the time came, he would show her why she was really here.
And he wondered if her claws would still be sharp once she knew.