Her heartless billionaire

the stunning lady in red.

[9:00 p.m.]

I stood before the large, gold-framed mirror, a silent sentinel in my bedroom, and watched my smartphone light up again. The insistent, vibrating buzz against the polished surface of my vanity was loud enough to finally jolt me from my thoughts. I realized with a start that I had been standing there for minutes, lost in a trance of nervous anticipation, despite being fully ready to leave. My reflection stared back, a stranger I was only just beginning to recognize. Initially, I had chosen a sophisticated black gown, a safe and elegant choice. But safety wasn't what this night was about. I'd quickly changed into a daring, floor-length Louis Vuitton gown, the color of a freshly spilled drop of blood. It was a statement. A challenge. I’d paired it with a pair of wickedly expensive, impossibly high Stuart Weitzman stilettos and had swept my hair up into an intricate bun to add a touch of refined sophistication to the otherwise audacious look.

As I stared into the mirror now, a slow, confident smile spread across my face. I looked stunning. It was the perfect blend of hot and classy, a visual paradox designed to both entice and intimidate. I was certain I would capture the attention of anyone I met tonight. That was the point. The choice of red had been deliberate, a hunter’s color. I was, after all, on the hunt for a mysterious, perhaps even mythical, billionaire. And catching his attention felt paramount.

My phone buzzed again, dragging my attention from my reflection. Mr. William. The company’s elderly driver, and from the frequency of his calls, a man whose patience was wearing thin. He and the limo were undoubtedly waiting for me downstairs. A soft laugh escaped me. He was a kind man, but punctuality was his religion. I snatched my small, black purse from the table, gave my reflection one last, appraising glance, and moved toward the door. My excitement propelled me forward, my steps quick and light. In what felt like seconds, I was out of my apartment, down the silent, carpeted hallway, through the gleaming elevator doors, across the lobby, and finally, sinking into the cool, cavernous interior of the waiting limousine.

I sat back against the plush leather, trying to wrestle my chaotic thoughts into some semblance of order. The glass partition separating me from the driver’s section slid down with a soft, hydraulic hiss. Mr. William’s kind, wrinkled face appeared in the rearview mirror, his warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“My dear, you look absolutely stunning,” he said, his voice a gentle, paternal rumble. “Tonight is going to go perfectly well. I wish you the very best of luck.”

He was a man who hated to be kept waiting, but his kindness was genuine. He had been a comforting, constant presence since my first week at the company.

“Thank you, Mr. William,” I replied, my own smile just as warm. The partition slid back up, encasing me once again in a silent, luxurious cocoon with only my thoughts for company. A flicker of doubt, cold and unwelcome, tried to worm its way into my mind. Was I truly ready for this? I shook my head stubbornly, physically locking the doubt out. There was no point in getting worked up. The chances that the man I was supposed to interview would even show up were, according to everyone, slim to none. I made up my mind then and there. Tonight, I would simply have fun. I would be the free-spirited girl I was by nature, and let fate handle the rest.

…

[9:30 p.m.

The Grandeur Nightclub, New York City]

The city at night was a dazzling, chaotic beast, a river of headlights and neon signs. Luckily, my apartment was close to the club, and the drive was barely thirty minutes. The limo pulled up to a discreet side entrance, away from the main throng of partygoers. I stepped out, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the warmth of the car. The Grandeur was not a ground-level establishment; it occupied the top floors of a seventeen-story skyscraper, a glittering jewel in the city’s crown. I made my way through the opulent, modern lobby and to a private elevator.

My plan was simple: blend in. I had no camera crew, no microphone, not even a press pass visible. My official PRIME VIEW ID was tucked away deep inside my purse, a last resort in case of trouble. To any bouncer, I was just another wealthy guest, dressed for a night of indulgence. The strategy worked perfectly. I was waved through security with a deferential nod, no questions asked. No one ever dared to hurt a reporter in New York—not physically. The fear of a scathing article that could tarnish the reputation of a lucrative establishment was a far more effective deterrent than any bodyguard.

The elevator doors opened directly into the heart of the party, and I was hit by a wall of sound and energy. The tempo was already at a fever pitch. The cavernous room was a kaleidoscope of flashing lights, shimmering dresses, and dark, expensive suits. The air thrummed with the deep, visceral beat of the music, a physical presence that vibrated in my chest. My first instinct was to lose myself on the dance floor, but first things first. I navigated through the crowd, a sea of beautiful, laughing people, and made my way to the long, illuminated bar.

“One shot of your best tequila,” I told the bartender, my voice raised to be heard over the music.

I rarely drank. My tolerance for alcohol was practically nonexistent. But tonight, I needed the liquid courage, the warm tingle that would loosen my inhibitions and help me shed the skin of Sarah Winston, the serious reporter, and become just Sarah, a girl at a party. The shot glass was cool in my hand. I downed it in one smooth motion, the fiery liquid a welcome shock to my system. A moment later, I was on the dance floor.

Just as I had planned, just as the red dress had promised, I was getting attention. I moved with the music, letting the rhythm take over, a liberating feeling of pure, unadulterated freedom. I danced, I laughed, I made fleeting connections with strangers whose names I would forget by morning. But even as I lost myself in the moment, a part of my mind remained on high alert, my eyes constantly scanning the room. I was looking for a man in a black suit. According to the sparse reports, the Heartless Billionaire was a creature of habit, and a perfectly tailored black suit was his signature, another supposed link to his rumored Mafia connections.

My gaze drifted upwards, to the elevated DJ booth overlooking the entire party. My heart gave a sudden, joyous leap. A wide, incredulous grin spread across my face. Luck, it seemed, was on my side after all. I excused myself from my dance partner and began to weave my way through the crowd, my destination the booth.

It took him a few seconds to notice me through the flashing lights and the sea of faces, but when he did, his own face broke into a massive grin. He held up a finger, expertly transitioned into a new track, and then abandoned his equipment to meet me at the edge of the booth, crushing me in a massive bear hug. DJ Echo—or as I knew him, Ethan—was an old, dear friend from Los Angeles. I had introduced him to his husband, a brilliant surgeon, and had thus earned a permanent, sacred place in his heart.

We spent a few precious minutes catching up, shouting over the music, a rapid-fire exchange of life updates and fond insults. But I was on a mission.

“Ethan,” I said, my voice serious now, “I need your help. Do you know a Mr. Max Malevolo? I heard he was supposed to be here tonight.”

His smile faltered, replaced by a look of surprise and concern. “Sarah, don’t tell me you’re here for work. This is a party.”

“Getting an interview with him could change my life,” I pleaded, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. “If you could just help me find him, I would be eternally grateful.”

He sighed, running a hand through his brightly colored hair. “Sarah, the man never gives interviews. Everyone knows that. He’s a ghost.”

“I know,” I said, my voice laced with a determination that I hoped was contagious. “I’m not asking you to get me the interview. Just help me find him. I’ll handle the rest from there.”

He looked around the club, his expression hesitant. “I’ve been looking for him all night, just to give him a shout-out. But I don’t think he came. He’s never late. If he’s not here by now, he was never planning on coming.”

My hopes, which had been soaring so high, began to plummet. “But I heard he comes here every year, on this exact date,” I pressed, unwilling to give up.

It wasn't just about my career anymore. The more people spoke of him, the more he became this larger-than-life enigma, a puzzle I felt an overwhelming need to solve. Ethan’s reluctance to even speak his name only fueled my curiosity.

“Sarah,” he said, his voice soft, almost pleading. “Do me a favor. As a friend. Forget about him and enjoy the party. Mr. Malevolo is not someone you should be actively searching for. He could wreck your career, your life, without a second thought.” He gave me a weak smile. “Okay?”

“Okay,” I lied, forcing a smile of my own. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would not be letting this go.

“Good,” he said, clearly relieved. “Now get back out there. I’m handing over the booth in about an hour. We’ll grab a drink then.” He gave me another quick hug before turning back to his turntables, instantly losing himself in the music again.

I walked back toward the dance floor, but the energy, the excitement that had fueled me just moments before, had completely evaporated. It was as if the possibility of meeting the world’s most eligible, most mysterious bachelor had been a potent drug, and I was now crashing back down to a dull, disappointing reality. I couldn’t dance anymore. The whole point of my wild, attention-grabbing display had been for an audience of one, and he wasn't even here.

Defeated, I retreated to the bar. I ordered a martini and sat there, nursing the drink, scrolling through my phone with a profound sense of disinterest. The party still raged around me, a chaotic, joyful spectacle that I was no longer a part of. An hour crawled by, each minute a small testament to my failed mission. I decided I had seen enough to write a passable lifestyle piece. I finished my drink, turned away from the bar, and made a beeline for the elevators at the far end of the enormous club. My legs felt a little wobbly, the alcohol finally making its presence known.

As I approached, I saw the polished steel doors of one elevator begin to slide shut. Someone was inside. For obvious reasons, I was in no mood to wait. The only thought in my head was escape.

“Hold the elevator!” I yelled, my voice sharp and commanding.

The man inside, a tall, imposing silhouette, didn't move. He just stood there, watching me, a smug, unbothered look on his face as the doors continued to close. The sheer arrogance of it, combined with the lingering effects of the martini, ignited a sudden, white-hot burst of adrenaline. I broke into a sprint, my stilettos clicking frantically against the marble floor. I made it just as the gap narrowed to a few inches, thrusting my purse between the closing doors.

They slid back open with a reluctant groan. I stepped inside, the doors closing behind me, encasing me in the small, silent space with the man who had so deliberately ignored me. If I’d had a gun in my purse, he would have been in serious trouble. He stood there, his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses, an island of infuriating calm. He was much taller than me, even in my heels, and he remained utterly still, not offering a single word of apology. I glared at him, the alcohol fanning the flames of my anger. Without thinking, I turned to face him, ready to unleash a torrent of well-deserved invective.

At that exact moment, my phone began to ring, its powerful vibration dislodging it from my drunken grip. It tumbled through the air. I lunged for it, a clumsy, uncoordinated movement. My stiletto heel caught on the plush carpeting, my knee buckled, and just like my phone, I began to fall.

And then, I felt him.

I had no idea how he could move so fast. One moment he was standing by the back wall of the elevator, the next his arms were around me, a band of steel catching me mid-air. I was enveloped in the scent of expensive cologne and something else, something uniquely masculine and intoxicating. I could feel the strength in his arms, the hard, unyielding muscle of his chest against my side. In that moment, all my anger was replaced by a dizzying sense of relief. It may have been the alcohol, or the simple, undeniable fact that I hadn't been this physically close to a man since I moved to New York, but I liked being in his arms. It was only after a few seconds of this pleasant, suspended reality that my brain finally caught up. I was in the arms of a complete stranger. And I was enjoying it.

The realization was like a splash of cold water. The effects of the alcohol vanished instantly. I scrambled out of his arms, getting back on my feet as quickly as I could. The embarrassment was a hot, flooding wave, a crimson tide rushing to my cheeks. The weirdest, most unsettling thing was the sudden, intense warmth I now felt between my thighs. I looked down at the floor, pretending to be engrossed in the sight of my fallen phone, hoping he couldn’t see the blush that was surely painting my entire face. I noticed his sunglasses on the floor next to my phone; they must have fallen off when he lunged to catch me.

I bent down to retrieve them, just as he squatted down to do the same. And just like that, we were face to face, our eyes locking in the small, confined space.

I hadn’t really looked at him before. If I had, I never would have been so angry.

He was, without a single doubt, the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

The sunglasses were gone, revealing a pair of startlingly blue eyes, the color of a tropical ocean. They were framed by thick, dark lashes, and they held an intensity that was both captivating and unnerving. I understood now. His arrogance, his rudeness—it was a shield. A defense against a world that would never leave a man who looked like him alone. As if he could read my mind, a slow, devastatingly charming smile spread across his face. It stole the air from my lungs and sent my heart into a frantic, stumbling rhythm.

He picked up my phone and handed it to me, his fingers brushing against mine. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, seductive timbre that seemed to vibrate through the very floor of the elevator. “You’re the stunning lady in red from the dance floor,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “You clearly had one too many martinis. Are you feeling alright?”

His concern seemed genuine, and in that slow, suspended moment, we were no longer strangers. My mind screamed at me to run, to get out of the elevator the second the doors opened and put as much distance as possible between myself and this dangerously beautiful man.

At that exact moment, a loud, jarring, metallic clank echoed through the elevator shaft. The lights flickered and then died, plunging us into absolute darkness. The smooth, upward hum of the elevator ceased, replaced by a dead, unnerving silence. We were stuck. And I was not going to get the chance to run from this devilishly handsome stranger anytime soon. By some bizarre twist of fate, I was trapped. And the strangest part? A small, reckless part of me was thrilled.

I tried to power on my phone, but the screen remained black. The fall must have broken it. Things were clearly not going according to plan. But as I stood there in the dark, a slow, secret smile spread across my face. I was happy. For some strange, inexplicable reason, I was happy, smiling at the stranger I could no longer see, like an excited teenager on the verge of a great adventure.