English Version
In the glittering heart of New York City, where skyscrapers pierced the clouds like ambitious fingers reaching for the stars, Simon West reigned supreme. At thirty-five, he was the founder and CEO of WestTech Innovations, a tech empire that had exploded onto the scene five years earlier with an AI-driven app that predicted consumer trends with eerie accuracy. Forbes called him "the Oracle of Fifth Avenue." Bloomberg dubbed him "the man with the golden gut." Simon himself preferred a simpler title: lucky bastard with good instincts.
Those instincts—sharp, almost supernatural—were his secret weapon. He could walk into a boardroom and sense which investor was bluffing, which startup was about to implode, which pretty woman across the bar was trouble worth chasing. It wasn't magic, he told himself; it was just paying attention to the little things: micro-expressions, tone shifts, the way someone's pupils dilated when they lied or lusted. Still, his friends joked that Simon had a built-in radar for both money and mischief.
His penthouse on the 78th floor of One57 overlooked Central Park like a king surveying his domain. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city lights that twinkled like a million possibilities. The place was a masterpiece of modern decadence: Italian marble floors, custom Danish furniture, a kitchen that could serve a Michelin-star restaurant, and a master bedroom with a bed so large it could host the Olympics. Simon rarely slept alone in it.
On this particular Friday evening in early spring, Simon stood at the window in a tailored charcoal Tom Ford suit, sipping a 25-year Macallan, watching the sun bleed orange across the skyline. His phone buzzed incessantly—investors, journalists, models, ex-lovers—but he ignored it. Tonight was the launch party for WestTech's newest venture: ErosAI, a dating app that used advanced neural networks to match people not just on interests, but on subconscious desires. The irony wasn't lost on him. The man who could read a room better than any algorithm had built one that tried to do the same for romance.
"Mr. West," came the soft voice of his assistant, Mia, from the doorway. She was twenty-eight, stunningly efficient, and completely immune to his charm—a rarity that made him respect her enormously. "The car's ready. Guests are already arriving at The Boom Boom Room."
Simon turned, flashing the grin that had closed billion-dollar deals and opened countless bedroom doors. "Let's go make some magic, then."
The Boom Boom Room atop the Standard Hotel was a sea of beautiful people: tech bros in sneakers worth more than most mortgages, influencers in dresses cut down to there and up to here, venture capitalists circling like well-dressed sharks. The air thrummed with bass-heavy music and the clink of champagne flutes. Simon moved through the crowd like a force of nature, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, his intuition pinging constantly.
There was David Chen from Sequoia—nervous about his portfolio. There was Vanessa the supermodel—bored with her current boyfriend. There was Marcus from rival company Nexus—smiling too widely, eyes too cold. Simon filed each observation away.
At the bar, he ordered another scotch and surveyed the room. That's when he saw her.
She stood out not because she was trying to, but because she wasn't. While most women posed like Instagram filters come to life, she leaned against a pillar laughing at something her friend said, completely unselfconscious. Mid-twenties, he guessed. Black hair in loose waves that caught the light like silk. A red dress that hugged curves designed by a generous god. But it was her face that stopped him: sharp cheekbones, full lips curved in genuine amusement, eyes that sparkled with intelligence and mischief.
His gut pinged hard. Not just attraction—something deeper. Potential. Danger. Promise.
Simon didn't hesitate. He crossed the room with the confidence of a man who always got what he wanted.
"Excuse me," he said, sliding between her and her friend with practiced ease. "But I think my new app just matched us at 99.9% compatibility, and I'd hate for the algorithm to be proven wrong."
She turned, and those eyes hit him like a shot of adrenaline. Green? No, hazel. Shifting colors depending on the light. She arched one perfect eyebrow.
"Does that line usually work, Mr. West?"
He laughed—genuinely, which surprised him. Most people fawned or flirted predictably. She'd recognized him instantly and called him on his bullshit.
"Honestly? Yes. But I'm hoping you'll be the exception that proves the rule."
Her friend—a pretty blonde in sequins—excused herself with a knowing grin, leaving them alone.
"I'm Lily," she said, extending a hand. Her grip was firm, confident. "Lily Pan. Designer. Currently between gigs, which is code for 'freelancing and praying.'"
"Simon West. Professional lucky bastard."
She smiled, and it transformed her face from beautiful to devastating. "I know who you are. Everyone does. The man who built an empire on hunches."
"Hunches and hard work," he corrected, signaling the bartender for another round. "What are you drinking?"
"Gin martini. Dirty."
He raised an eyebrow. "A woman who knows what she wants. Dangerous."
"Only if you're easily scared."
They talked for hours—or what felt like hours in party time. She was sharp, funny, unafraid to challenge him. When he bragged about ErosAI's predictive accuracy, she countered with stories of disastrous dates that no algorithm could have foreseen. When he mentioned his intuition, she shared how she could always tell when a client was about to stiff her on payment by the way they said "we love your work."
It was the most stimulating conversation he'd had in months.
As the party wound down, Simon found himself reluctant to let her go. His usual playbook—charm, invite upstairs, morning goodbye—felt wrong. His gut told him this one was different.
"Can I give you a ride home?" he asked.
She studied him for a long moment, those hazel eyes seeing more than most people ever did.
"Actually," she said, "I think I'd rather walk. Clear my head. But..." She pulled out her phone. "Give me your number. The real one, not the one you give to women you're trying to lose."
He laughed again, typing it in. "You're assuming I want you to have it."
"Oh, you definitely do," she said with absolute certainty. "Your pupils have been dilated for the last hour. Classic sign of interest."
Simon felt something shift inside him. Not just desire—though God knew that was there in abundance—but recognition. Here was someone who saw the world the way he did.
As she walked away, red dress swaying, he watched until she disappeared into the elevator. His phone buzzed almost immediately.
Unknown number: Don't overthink it, Oracle. Some things even your gut can't predict.
He smiled, saved the contact as "Lily Pan—Trouble," and headed home alone for the first night in longer than he could remember.
Little did he know, this was only the beginning. His empire was about to become infinitely more complicated—and infinitely more pleasurable.
In the weeks that followed, Simon threw himself into preparing ErosAI for full launch. But Lily lingered in his thoughts like a particularly addictive song. They texted constantly—banter that escalated from playful to suggestive to downright filthy with impressive speed. She had a wicked sense of humor and zero filter, which he found intoxicating.
One Thursday night, three weeks after the party, she texted: Working late on a pitch. Starving. Save me?
He responded immediately: My place. Chef owes me a favor. 8pm.
She arrived at 8:15—deliberately late, he suspected—in jeans that should be illegal and a silk blouse that made him want to cancel dinner entirely.
The chef had outdone himself: truffle risotto, wagyu beef, a chocolate soufflé that was practically pornographic. They ate on the terrace overlooking the park, city lights spread beneath them like scattered diamonds.
"You know," Lily said over dessert, licking chocolate from her spoon in a way that tested Simon's self-control, "most men would've tried to get me into bed that first night."
"Most men aren't me."
"Arrogant."
"Confident." He leaned forward. "Besides, my gut told me you'd be worth waiting for."
"And now?"
"Now it's telling me to stop waiting."
The kiss, when it finally happened, was electric. Weeks of buildup exploded into heat and hunger. She tasted like chocolate and gin and something uniquely Lily. Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling just hard enough to make him groan.
They didn't make it to the bedroom. The terrace sofa sufficed—cushions scattered, clothes half-removed in frantic urgency. She was everything he'd imagined and more: responsive, demanding, laughing even as she gasped his name.
Later, tangled in sheets that had somehow migrated inside, she traced patterns on his chest.
"So," she murmured, "was your gut right?"
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her temple. "My gut's never been more accurate."
Outside, the city hummed on, oblivious to the fact that Simon West's carefully controlled world had just tilted on its axis. One woman had walked into his empire and claimed territory without firing a shot.
But Simon's intuition whispered something else too: this was just the opening act. The real complications—and pleasures—were yet to come.