A Kiss For A Kiss

02

He could go fuck himself. Who the hell did that creepy guy think he was? Sending me a velvet dress out of nowhere and expecting me to attend some ball like I'm his puppet? Yeah, right. That unknown jackass must have serious blue balls if he thought I'd go along with that.

But it wasn't even the worst part. The real kicker was the blackmail. The nerve to warn me that something bad would happen if I didn't do as I was told. Yeah, some people are full of shit, but this guy? He took it to a whole new level of delusion.

I open my eyes, exhausted, and glance at the dress hanging over my dresser. It's imposing, sinful, and, I hate to admit, stunning. A piece of art wasted. Because there was no fucking way I'd wear it. The note said I had to be ready by five p.m. sharp. Some car would pick me up and drop me off at this mysterious event where I was supposed to pretend to be someone I'm not. The man who sent the letter must be living in some fantasy world because that's just not how reality works.

It's already four-thirty. For some inexplicable reason, a mix of fear and excitement tingles across my skin, raising goosebumps. I rub my arms, purposefully avoiding the mirror because I know what I'll see—a flushed face staring back at me. I've always been this way, drawn to danger like a moth to flame. I don't need to touch my panties to know they're already soaked. That's just how I'm wired, goddammit. But in my twenty-five years of living, not a single man has ever managed to tame the craving that simmers inside me. And I ache for the one who will.

Finally dropping my act of defiance, I grab the dress from the closet and slip it on. If I'm being honest with myself, I've been waiting for something like this my entire life. I love the way the fear makes me sweat, the heat that rises beneath my skin. It's like being set ablaze. But with it comes doubt and terror—raw, animalistic terror.

What am I supposed to do at the ball? How do I even know which car to get into? Do I trust the driver enough to risk it? Should I show up late on purpose, just to see what happens? Am I really about to obey a stranger because of a note and a fancy dress?

These thoughts flood my mind like a crashing wave, but I don't stop applying my makeup or brushing my hair. I know, without being told, that wherever I'm going, it's going to be luxurious and classy. I need to look the part.

At exactly five, a sleek, black Rolls Royce pulls up outside my apartment. Ignoring every instinct screaming at me to run, I step into the car.

"Holy shit," a light but suspicious voice muses from beside me. "She actually listened."

I turn to the speaker, and he's definitely not the driver. No, the man sitting next to me looks more like a full-time model. With sharp, gray eyes, pale skin, and a sly grin, he's the kind of guy any woman would swoon over.

"Oh, by the way," he says, his tone unexpectedly soft, "I'm Jimin."

"Ah," I stare at him—Jimin—in uncomfortable silence. Everything about this feels fake. Too fake. "Hi? I'm—"

"Roseanne," he interrupts with a scoff. "We know."

We?

"Why did you send me the note?" I finally muster the courage to ask.

"I didn't," he replies. I blink at him, he blinks back. This man reminds me of the ocean—beautiful, but filled with dark secrets and hidden dangers. Jimin may seem funny and charming, but I know, deep down, that this guy has blood on his hands.

Panic starts bubbling up in my chest. I've walked right into a trap. Dangerous men—really dangerous men—are involved. The kind with guns, clips, and absolutely no qualms about using them.

"Who sent it, then?" I ask, my voice tight.

Jimin smirks. "My boss."

I clench my jaw. "Oh yeah?"

"C'mon, love," he chuckles, "the fun has just started."