If regret had a ringtone, mine was a blocked number vibrating through my cheap phone at 3 a.m.
I didn't answer.
Because I already knew who it was.
I also knew I'd made a mistake just not which one.
Was it the TikTok?
The money I returned?
The fact that I Googled his name in the middle of the night and accidentally liked a LinkedIn post from 2014?
Either way, when I opened my apartment door that morning, a man in a black suit was waiting with a clipboard and an emotionless smile.
"Miss Black? I'm here to deliver a formal notice."
"Are you trying to serve me?" I blinked. "Because I don't do lawsuits until after coffee."
"No lawsuit. Just ownership transfer. Your building has a new landlord."
"Excuse me?"
"Dorian Kane. Effective immediately."
I stood barefoot on my doormat, wrapped in a towel that barely stayed up, staring at the paperwork like it might burst into flames.
He bought. My. Building.
Not just my apartment.
The whole structure.
Six floors of creaky radiators, fire hazards, and no elevator.
And he bought it just to evict me.
I slammed the door before I screamed.
Seconds later, my phone buzzed.
Blocked number. Again.
I answered this time.
"You're out of your damn mind," I snapped.
Silence. Then:
"Ava." His voice was deep. Lazy. Infuriatingly amused. "I told you I'd make it fun."
"You call this fun?"
"You said no to my money. So I gave you something you couldn't return."
"You gave me an eviction notice!"
"Temporary." A pause. "Unless you'd rather play this the hard way."
I gritted my teeth. "What's the easy way, then?"
"Dinner. One hour. My driver's already outside."
I pulled the curtain back.
A black town car idled at the curb like it had always been there.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"You really think I'm that desperate?"
"No." His voice dropped, smooth as whiskey. "I think you're curious."
Damn him.
Because he was right.
I showered fast.
Threw on a dress I hadn't worn in a year.
Mascara, lip gloss, no perfume because I didn't want him thinking I cared.
The driver opened the door with a nod.
I got in like it was the most normal thing in the world to go on a forced dinner with a billionaire who basically threatened me into a date.
I expected a fancy restaurant.
I got a private rooftop.
Candlelight. White linen. A skyline that screamed money.
And Dorian Kane, waiting at the table in a suit that probably cost more than my student debt.
He didn't rise when I approached.
Just studied me like I was already on the menu.
"You came."
"You gave me no choice."
"Sweetheart." His voice curved like a smirk. "You always have a choice. You just don't like the price of the other one."
I sat down, heart thudding. "So, what now? You bribe me again? Threaten my building twice?"
"No." He leaned forward, eyes dark. "Now I spoil you. Until you never want to leave."
And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the first time I realized—
I wasn't just being watched.
I was being claimed.