The billionaire's forbidden pit stop

The steam in the massive, slate-gray bathroom was so thick it completely obscured the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the city. Under the steady, hammering stream of the shower stood Adrian Kayel Novak. At 6'2", he was a towering, lean giant. Even now, standing completely relaxed beneath the near-scalding water, the hard lines of his muscles were perfectly defined. It was the body of a man bound by brutal discipline, carved from years of pushing himself to the absolute limit. The water cascaded down his honey-toned skin, rolling over the sharp angles of his shoulders and chest. His shoulder-length hair—mostly pitch black, but striking with intentional, dyed blonde streaks running through it—clung wetly to his neck, framing a face that was flawlessly attractive yet terrifyingly cold. Beneath the wet strands, his dark, scary black eyes stared blankly ahead, watching his own reflection in the fogged-up glass. He looked like a dark Greek god, commanding and dangerous, even when completely unclothed. Turning off the valve, Adrian stepped out of the glass enclosure and wrapped a black towel around his waist. Aside from his honey skin and those sharp blonde streaks in his hair, Adrian’s world was entirely consumed by darkness. He didn’t just prefer black; it was his identity. His clothes, his penthouse, and every single one of his luxury cars sitting in the underground garage below were either deep midnight black or sleek matte black. He walked into his master bedroom, the air-conditioning instantly biting at his damp skin. Dropping onto the edge of the unmade king-sized bed was a stack of unsigned business contracts, waiting for his final approval. Adrian barely spared them a glance as his phone began to vibrate violently on the nightstand. He picked it up, answering with a low, gravelly grunt as he began to dress. He didn't say much, just listening to the voice on the other end while pulling on a crisp black button-down shirt. His movements were calculated and fast. He buttoned it up, slipped into a pair of tailored black trousers, and finally pulled on a sharp black blazer. By the time he hung up the phone, he looked every bit the ruthless billionaire businessman the boardrooms feared. Buttoning his cuffs, Adrian walked out of the bedroom and headed toward the spacious, modern dining area. *Thud.* Adrian’s polished dress shoe caught on something heavy, sending him stumbling forward. He caught his balance instantly, his face instantly twisting into a dark, murderous scowl. He cursed under his breath and looked down at the floor. Lying flat on his back, blocking the entire entrance to the dining area, was Felix. Felix was one of Adrian's closest friends, a fully French man who was noticeably smaller than Adrian's massive frame, but deceptively strong and athletic. He was also an unrepentant playboy. Right now, he was passed out cold on the hard floor of a multi-million-dollar penthouse as if guest rooms didn't exist. Scattered all around him were empty, overturned wine and liquor bottles. Last night had clearly been an absolute blast, and Felix had paid the price for it. Adrian didn’t hesitate. He pulled back his leg and delivered a sharp, unforgiving kick right to Felix’s backside. "Ah! *Putain de merde!*" Felix shrieked, his eyes flying open as he shot up into a sitting position, unleashing a loud stream of rapid-fire French curses. He rubbed his bruised rear, glaring up at Adrian with bleary, bloodshot eyes. Adrian didn't even blink. He looked down at his friend with pure disgust. "Go to the bed. Don't make me kick your ass again. I don't like touching wood other than plushies." Felix’s jaw dropped. His eyes widened in sheer offense at the insult, his brain struggling to process the words through a heavy layer of alcohol. "You—you heartless bastard!" Felix muttered, scrambling to his feet while grumbling more colorful French profanities under his breath. Felix turned to stagger toward the guest rooms, but his balance was completely gone. *Thwack.* He walked face-first straight into the edge of the dining room wall. He bounced off, groaned, took two more steps, and *thwack*—hit his forehead against the hallway door frame. Still completely tipsy, he mumbled something incoherent about the wall moving on purpose before finally disappearing into the bedroom. Adrian shook his head, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. He walked over to the kitchen island, picking up his iPad to scan through the morning's business and financial news. The moment the screen lit up, his jaw tightened. "Here we go again," he muttered, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. Right there, on the front page of a prominent media outlet, was a massive, high-definition photograph. It showed Adrian and Ren—their other close friend—practically dragging a completely ruined, half-conscious Felix out of a high-end club toward a hotel the previous night. The lighting was sharp, capturing the raw, messy state of the trio perfectly. The headline practically screamed off the screen with mocking sarcasm: > **THE BILLIONAIRE'S NIGHT OUT: RUTHLESS IN THE BOARDROOM, RUINED IN THE CLUBS? INSIDE THE WILD, UNGUARDED LIVES OF OUR ELITE.** > Adrian's grip on the iPad tightened until his knuckles turned white. His dark eyes locked onto the bottom of the article, searching for the byline. *Authored by: Milli.* Adrian pulled out his personal phone and speed-dialed his secretary. The call connected on the very first ring. "Zain," Adrian said, his voice dropping to a dangerously low, commanding whisper. "Did you find out who is publishing these articles? Who is this 'Milli'?" There was a brief, tense pause on the other end of the line. "I am deeply sorry, Mr. Novak," Zain replied, his voice trembling slightly. "We are tracking the source, but the author is using heavily encrypted freelance channels. We haven't found their real identity yet." *BANG!* Adrian slammed his fist down onto the heavy wooden dining table, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the quiet penthouse. On the other end of the line, Zain completely froze, holding his breath. Adrian didn't say a word. He just stared at the name 'Milli' printed on his screen. In his mind, he had already brutally murdered this reporter a hundred different ways. Whoever this person was, they had just crossed a very dangerous line, and Adrian Kayel Novak always hunted down his targets.