Chapter 1 Graffiti, Glitter, and a Billionaire's Wrath

Elena pov

I didn't mean to tag the most powerful building in Silicon Valley.

Okay, maybe I meant to. Just not the headquarters of Thorn Industries. And not while high on adrenaline, half a can of neon pink spray paint in my hand, and "Rage Against the Machine" blasting in my earbuds.

But here I was. On a Tuesday night. Balancing on the edge of a corporate rooftop like some kind of broken Banksy, outlining a giant bleeding heart with barbed wire curling through it. Right beneath the sleek black logo of the coldest tech empire known to man.

And God, it was perfect. The symbolism. The rebellion. The irony.

I stepped back, squinting at the shape. The final touches would give it life. A cracked crown above the heart. Maybe some blood dripping onto gold coins.

This mural would scream You can't buy compassion.

That was the whole point. They were bulldozing my neighborhood next week, Thorn Industries. Slick, clinical bastards with their AI bots and glass towers. People like them didn't see color unless it was green. My mother's old bodega? Gone. Our community mural? Whitewashed. My childhood memories? Reduced to rubble for luxury condos that no one from the Eastside could afford.

So yeah, this was personal.

I was shaking the last drops of paint from the can when the click of a camera broke through my music.

My heart jumped. I turned slowly.

A security drone hovered above me, red light blinking like it was smirking. Great. Another violation added to my record. I yanked off my hoodie, about to bolt, but before I could even blink.

"Don't move."

The voice was ice. Not the bored, underpaid security kind. No. This one had authority laced into every syllable. It sounded like money. Control. Arrogance dipped in frostbite.

I turned around and nearly swallowed my gum.

He stood just beyond the rooftop's glass exit door. Tailored black suit. No tie. Sleeves rolled up like he had just finished fighting someone in a boardroom. Tall, broad, and built like every rich villain from a spy movie. He wasn't handsome in the traditional sense, he was sharp. Chiseled jaw, eyes like polished steel, and a mouth that looked like it forgot how to smile a decade ago.

Lucas Thorn. CEO of Thorn Industries. Reclusive, ruthless, and richer than God.

And I'd just defaced his building.

Shit.

"Wow," I breathed, half to myself. "You're taller than I expected."

He didn't react. Not a blink.

Instead, he walked forward slowly, deliberately as if afraid I'd vanish if he moved too fast. His eyes traveled over the mural, then dropped to me.

"You did this?" he asked.

His voice was lower now. Controlled. Dangerous.

"Nope," I said too quickly. "Must've been the art fairies."

Silence.

Then he reached into his jacket. I flinched, but he only pulled out a phone. Tapped it once.

Within seconds, two men in black suits emerged from the stairwell. Like agents. FBI or worse.

Panic kicked in. I took a step back, trying to play it cool even though my heart was pounding like a damn bass drum.

"Look, I was just expressing myself," I said. "You stole my neighborhood. I figured I'd steal some of your concrete."

Lucas tilted his head. "You're Elena Marquez. Eastside. Expelled from VADA for 'disruptive' installations. Four minor arrests. No convictions. Currently banned from three gallery districts. Impressive for someone with zero bank credit and no permanent address."

I gaped. "What the hell did your robot stalk me?"

"No," he replied. "I did."

My brain short-circuited. "You what?"

His eyes locked onto mine. "You interest me."

I didn't know what unnerved me more the fact that he already knew everything about me, or the way he said it like it was a fact, not a compliment.

I stepped back again. "Well, I'd love to stay and be psychoanalyzed, but I'm kinda not in the mood to be arrested tonigh."

"You're not going to jail," he said, interrupting me. "Unless you'd prefer it."

I paused, confused. "What are you talking about?"

He walked past me now, to the edge of the mural. His eyes scanned it with unsettling intensity. Not disgust. Not even anger. Just... calculation.

"This is good," he muttered.

"I know," I snapped.

"Too good to waste."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

He turned to me again. "I have a proposition."

Oh hell no. I'd seen this movie before. Pretty Girl makes s Deal with the Devil. Ends with tears, contracts, and maybe a body bag.

"Hard pass," I said immediately. "I don't do deals with soulless billionaires."

"You're not in a position to decline," he replied calmly. "You just committed felony vandalism. On private corporate property. With drones and biometric footage."

I glared at him. "So blackmail's your love language?"

His mouth curved slightly. Not a smile. More like amusement, trying to claw its way past his icy exterior.

"You're bold," he said. "Good. You'll need it."

"For what? Doing a community service campaign with your AI bots?"

He stepped closer. Too close. I could smell the faint trace of expensive cologne and cold logic.

"I need a fiancée," he said.

I stared. "You need a what?"

"A fake one. For six months. Public appearances. Interviews. A few charity events. In exchange, your record is wiped clean. And you receive one million dollars."

I laughed. Laughed. "Is this a prank show?"

"No."

"Why would someone like you need a fake fiancée?"

His jaw ticked. "That's not your concern."

"You're insane."

"Possibly. But you'd be rich."

I crossed my arms. "There has to be a catch."

"There always is."

He didn't elaborate. Of course, he didn't.

My brain spiraled. One million dollars. My mother's hospital bills. My sister's tuition. A studio of my own. Hell, paint that didn't come from expired discount bins.

But six months playing Stepford Barbie to Mr. Robotic Billionaire?

No way. Right?

"I don't do leashes," I said. "Or obedience. Or high heels."

"Good," he replied. "I already have a dog."

I blinked. Was that...a joke?

Before I could speak again, he stepped forward and extended a hand.

"Last chance," he said. "Say yes, and you'll never be anonymous again."

I stared at his hand.

Elena. What the hell are you doing?

I could say no. Walk away. Fight the charges. Start over.

But something in his eyes beneath the armor, the calculation called to me. Like a dare. Or a secret.

I reached out and took his hand.

And just like that, my world stopped being mine.