SEBASTIAN'S POV
A week before the gala at Hotel Adlon Kempinski
Snow falls over Berlin like shredded paper from some god's careless hand. Dead trees line the streets, their skeletal branches clawing at the grey sky.
Even the sky is moody.
I stare out the tinted window of my Rolls-Royce, a cigar dangling between my fingers—unlit, because for some reason, I can't bring myself to take a drag.
"You will know exactly who she is the moment she steps in."
The old woman's words from years ago slither back into my mind. Nonsense, of course. Just the ramblings of some senile stranger I helped with her bags once.
Still, the memory lingers, sticky and unwelcome.
Memories are like this, always lingering in the most unexpected situation.
A sigh slips from between my lips.
Next to me, Isabella Laurant shifts in her seat, the diamonds in her rose-shaped earrings catching the dim light. She's polished to perfection—emerald-green eyes, a neckline designed to tease but not trespass, and makeup so flawless it probably costs more than the monthly rent of some middle-class family's apartment.
My mother's choice. Not mine.
If it weren't for my idiot brother's latest scandal, I wouldn't be wasting my afternoon babysitting a French banking heiress who looks at me like I'm a vault of gold she's trying to crack.
- "Sebastian, you better not embarrass me today. Just treat her the way you treat your co-stars. And don't act like some saint—we both know you're not." -
My best friend's warning echoes in my skull. He's playing wingman for this disaster of a date, bribed by my mother, no doubt.
Isabella clears her throat, her voice soft and probing. "You don't look well. Everything okay?"
I don't glance at her. "No."
That should've been the end of it. But she's persistent.
"I heard you're starting production on Winter's Gaze next week," she says, tilting her head. "I loved the novel."
"Hmm. It's a good one." My tone is colder than the Berlin winter outside.
She laughs, a delicate, practiced sound. "You didn't even read it as fiction."
I almost roll my eyes. Of course I read it. I optioned the damn thing. People love to assume things about others.
She leans closer, her perfume—something expensive and floral—invading my space. "What's your ideal type, Sebastian?"
I exhale through my nose. Here we go.
I wanted to ask her, What makes you think my ideal type will be someone who asks if she is my ideal type or not?
No.
Bad idea.
That annoying gum will nag me till my ears bleed if I say something.
"I don't have one."
She nudges my arm, undeterred. "Don't be silly. Everyone has an ideal type."
I turn my head just enough to look at her, my expression flat. "Fine. I like women with sharp minds and sharper tongues. Someone who doesn't bow to power, who's good at manipulation—because I need to be manipulated into believing I need a woman who can make me behave, live decently, and stop fucking around whenever I feel like it. Because apparently, I am a certified a**hole."
I pause, watching her carefully. "And you, Ms. Laurant, clearly don't have the spine to call me out on my bullshit."
Her lips part. Her eyes shimmer—not with anger, but with the threat of tears.
Oh, shit!
Here goes again. I did exactly what he told me not to do. Made a billionaire princess cry.
Never mind. It's good in some senses.
Maybe now she'll stop pretending this is anything but a transaction.
But then—
"You're cruel," she whispers. "But I'll give you credit for honesty."
I blink. What?
Her cheeks flush. A small, shaky smile curves her mouth. "I'm looking forward to the rest of our date, Sebastian."
I stare at her like she's just spoken in ancient tongues.
Did she not hear me? I just told her, in excruciating detail, that I'm a lost cause. And apparently there is no woman who can call me out because they either think I am too pretty or handsome or too rich and brutally honest about being an a**hole.
"I like men who are honest about their thoughts," she continues, undeterred. "I think we could get along."
I turn back to the window, suddenly fascinated by the dead trees again.
Humanity is doomed.
Just how bad a woman must have to go through that a man like me is suddenly attractive?
The car slows at a red light. Isabella prattles on about her ex-boyfriend—some spineless worm who cheated on her and lied. Ah. That explains it. She mistakes my brand of cruelty for integrity.
I tune her out, my gaze drifting to a flower shop beside a café. Hmm, this flower shop has a good collection of flowers. I should get some for my penthouse tomorrow.
An old man sits outside, most likely the owner, given the soft and warm aura he is radiating, reading a hardcover copy of Winter's Gaze.
My lips twitch at the anticipation of the amount of cash I am going to make from the film.
Then—
The café door slams open.
A storm in human form strides out.
Black hair half-fallen from its bun, thick glasses sliding down her nose, andgrey coat billowing around her ankles. She looks like she's two seconds away from committing murder.
And trailing behind her—Joseph Green.
Wait, Joseph Green?
Son of a major producer. Professional fuckboy, also a pampered daddy boy who thinks his oh-not-so-masculine looks can get him any woman on planet earth, maybe alien too if they exist.
And currently, the unlucky bastard is on the receiving end of this woman's wrath.
"Isn't that Joseph Green?" Isabella murmurs, leaning forward following my gaze.
"You know him?"
"Dated my best friend. Cheated on her. Total playboy." Disgust drips from her words. "But who's that with him?"
I don't answer. I'm too busy watching the scene unfold.
Joseph grabs the woman's wrist. She whirls on him—
And slaps him. Hard???
??????????
She slapped Joseph Green, whom not even the prime minister's daughter could slap, because why make an enemy out of his father, who can vanish your entire bloodline?
Isabella gasps. "Oh my God. She just—"
The car starts moving again, but my eyes stay locked on the woman. She walks fast, her strides sharp, furious, and unapologetic.
Joseph shouts after her, loud enough that I catch the words through the glass:
"I'M SORRY, ANAYA! JUST LISTEN TO ME!"
Anaya.
The name lingers in my mind like smoke.
Fascinating.
She managed to make someone as spoiled as Joseph Green, a fucking cheater and brat.
Either she has the guts of steel
Or,
She simply thinks she can afford to get under the skin of Joseph Green.
Any of the cases will be fascinating but none of my business.
She doesn't look like she is from high society or any model. That means I will never be meeting this woman again.
Or at least that's how things were supposed to be, according to my calculation.
Because 2 days later, I come across this woman—once again. In the most unexpected table situation.