Dangerously Yours

ChapterOne

The morning light cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows like an accusation. Raymond Jules squinted against it, already annoyed. He sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless, thumbing through emails on his phone with the kind of focus most people reserved for things that actually mattered.

Behind him, silk sheets rustled.

"Morning."

Her voice was soft. Hopeful. He felt her shift closer, felt the mattress dip as she moved.

Raymond didn't look up. "Hey."

One word. Barely an acknowledgment. He kept scrolling—quarterly reports, meeting requests, an email from his father's assistant about some charity gala he'd already decided not to attend. Anything to avoid the conversation he knew was coming.

Her fingertips grazed his shoulder blade. Light. Tentative.

"Last night was amazing," she said.

"Yeah."

He stood, crossing to the chair where his clothes lay in a careless heap. His pants first. Then the shirt—white, Italian, expensive enough that he never checked the price. The routine was muscle memory by now. Get dressed. Get out. Move on.

"So I was thinking," she continued, and he could hear the smile in her voice, "maybe we could grab breakfast? There's this little place in the West Village that makes the best—"

"I don't really do breakfast."

Raymond buttoned his shirt, taking his time with each one. When he finally glanced at the mirror, he caught her reflection. She'd sat up, sheet clutched to her chest, dark hair tumbling over one shoulder. She was pretty. He'd known that last night. Still knew it now.

It didn't change anything.

"Oh." Her smile wavered. "Lunch then?"

Something in his chest tightened. Not guilt—he'd buried that years ago—but maybe its ghost. The faint memory of what guilt used to feel like.

He turned to face her.

"Listen..." He paused. Her name sat somewhere in his memory, just out of reach. They'd met at the bar downstairs. She'd laughed at something he said. They'd had drinks. Then more drinks. Then this. "...what happened last night was fun. But that's all it was."

"Amber," she said quietly. "My name is Amber."

"Right. Amber." He reached for his watch, fastening the clasp. The weight of it felt familiar. Grounding. "Look, you seem great. Really. But I'm not looking for anything serious."

She stared at him, and he watched her expression shift. Confusion first, then understanding, then something harder. Something that looked almost like recognition.

"Serious," she repeated. "You mean like... seeing each other again?"

"I mean like anything beyond last night." He grabbed his jacket, checking the pockets automatically. Wallet. Keys. Phone. Everything in its place. "I don't do relationships. I don't do follow-ups. I thought that was clear."

Her laugh came out sharp. Bitter. "Oh, it's crystal clear now."

Raymond shrugged into his jacket. He should probably say something else. Something kinder. But kindness implied he owed her something, and he'd learned a long time ago not to offer what he couldn't deliver.

"You're an asshole," she said.

"Probably." He didn't deny it. "But I never lied to you. I never said this was going to be more than one night."

"You said I was different."

Had he? Yeah. Maybe. The words came easy after enough drinks, and he'd stopped keeping track of what he said in the dark.

"You are different," he said, and something almost like humor flickered through him. "Brunette. Last week was blonde."

The look she gave him could've stripped paint.

"Unbelievable." She threw back the covers, searching for her dress with sharp, angry movements. "You know what? Every single thing they say about you is true."

"Good to know my reputation's consistent."

Raymond moved toward the door. This was the part he hated most—not the leaving, but the messy in-between. The moment when whatever illusion they'd built came crashing down and he had to stand there while they realized exactly who he was.

A bastard in expensive clothes.

"That's it?" Her voice rose. "You're just walking out?"

He stopped, hand on the doorframe. For a second—just a second—he almost turned around. Almost said something real. Something that acknowledged the way she was looking at him, like he'd taken something from her she couldn't get back.

But he didn't.

"Car service is downstairs," he said instead. "Just give them my name. They'll take you wherever you need to go."

"I don't want your goddamn car service—"

The door closed on the rest of her sentence.

As he walked out on her, the housekeeper walked in almost immediately, carrying lots of designer boxes.

"What are those?"

"These are compliments from Mr. Raymond, Ma." The housekeeper answered her, arranging the gift boxes on the couch.

"You're such a jerk, Raymond!" She screamed out.

Her screams caused a grin from Raymond, who was still behind the door, eavesdropping.

His phone buzzed, just as he walked down the passageway.

*Bodyguard interviews at 11. Don't be late. Your mother will kill me if you don't show.*—Marcus.

Right. The bodyguard situation.

Raymond rolled his eyes as he headed for the elevator. The whole thing was ridiculous. Some competitor sending anonymous threats, probably hoping to rattle the Jules family into making a stupid business decision. It happened every few years. His father would make some calls, throw some money around, and the problem would disappear like it always did.

But his mother had insisted. And when Amelia Jules insisted on something, the universe had a way of bending to her will.

Fine. He'd sit through the interviews. Hire whoever seemed competent enough to cash a paycheck and stay out of his way. Then he'd go back to his life—the clubs, the deals, the women whose names he'd forget by morning.

The elevator arrived with a soft chime. He stepped inside, catching his reflection in the mirrored walls. Dark hair perfectly styled. Jawline sharp enough to cut. The face of a man who'd never heard the word "no" and didn't plan to start hearing it now.

A bodyguard. Like he was some fragile thing that needed protecting. He scoffed, as the thought flashed through his mind.

The thought almost made him laugh.

The elevator descended smoothly, carrying him down from his tower toward whatever mundane bullshit the day had waiting. He checked his watch—two hours until the interviews.

Just enough time to grab coffee and remind everyone exactly who ran this city.

And more importantly, who didn't need saving