Chapter 1

The winter days were unforgiving. Blake, just twenty-one, stood shivering outside one of the city's finest restaurants, collecting its trash. Hunger gnawed at him, snowflakes clinging to his dark, curly hair. Despite his striking looks, he was just another impoverished youth working as a garbage collector for the local sanitary landfill since his mother's death when he was ten. Shame warred with necessity as he worked, avoiding eye contact with passersby who often looked down on him. Blake's stomach twisted, but he continued, each averted gaze a fresh wound to his pride. The cold seeped into his bare feet; his shoes had been stolen by a gang of bullies he frequently encountered.

Finally, he finished collecting the trash and loaded it into the dump truck. He and the other garbage collectors climbed in, and they drove out of the city’s metropolitan area to dispose of their haul.

As the dump truck rumbled toward the dumpsite, Blake's mind raced, trying to find solace in his situation. "It's better than begging," he muttered to himself. "I grew up on the streets. Earning even a little money isn’t so bad. At least I can buy food."

Twenty minutes later, they arrived. The stench of decaying waste always made his stomach flip, an everyday torment he had to endure. He thought of finding his mother’s wealthy relatives to ask for help, but he had no idea where to start.

Each hour felt like an eternity, yet Blake impatiently waited for the end of their shift because it was payday. He hadn't had a decent meal since yesterday and was desperate to buy food. He wished he could fast-forward time.

At last, the shift ended. After receiving his meager salary, he headed to a small bakery to buy bread for dinner. He paid quickly, eager to leave; he couldn't ignore the disdain from the other patrons, evident in their stares at his dirty, worn clothes.

Shivering, Blake walked towards a small chapel while eating his food. His thin clothes offered little protection from the cold. He sat on the steps, pulling his threadbare coat around him, longing for a home. As he prepared to sleep there, a familiar dread crept over him. The gang was back. They wanted his money.

His heart pounded. He fled, his bare feet slipping on the icy street, towards a large, elegant house—the kind only the wealthy could afford. A light shone in the open parking area.

He knew what would happen if they caught him: another beating, another theft. They were jealous, jobless but not homeless, and eager to take what little he had.

Sweat soaked his shirt despite the cold. He darted into the parking lot, but they were too close. He was trapped.

Cornered, Blake fought back, but he was weak and malnourished. One of the gang members grabbed a metal pipe and swung. Pain exploded in Blake's head, and he collapsed.

Helpless, he watched them snatch his salary. He lay there, gasping, unable to move, as darkness enveloped him.

Moments later, a Bugatti Chiron Pur Sport roared into the parking area, driven by an eighteen-year-old girl, clearly drunk. She stumbled out of the car, heading in his direction. Blinded by intoxication, she didn't see him until her foot struck his body. She screamed and tripped.

Fear, shock, curiosity, and intoxication warred within her. Sprawled on the ground beside the motionless figure, she examined him. Her ankle throbbed from her misaligned high heel.

He wasn't just sleeping. He was unconscious. "Hey! Are you dead?" she asked, shaking his shoulder impatiently.

"Ugh," Blake groaned, a sound filled with pain. He couldn’t open his eyes; his body ached.

He slipped back into unconsciousness.

She shook her head, considering her options. She couldn't leave him out here. Pity consumed her.

Too heavy to carry, she grabbed his feet and began to drag him toward the house. "Sorry for the bruises, but it's better than freezing out here," she muttered, struggling with his weight.

He felt nothing.

Finally, she managed to pull him into the guest room. His clothes were filthy and wet. She hesitated, then decided to change him. She didn't want to ruin the bedding.

As she wiped the dirt from his face, she saw he was handsome. How long had it been since he'd bathed? He must be homeless. The bruises and cuts spoke of a brutal assault.

Undressing him brought a blush to her neck, and she fought to ignore the unfamiliar heat he evoked. She dressed him quickly, then pushed him onto a makeshift bed she'd made on the floor.

Exhausted, she went to her room, eager to shed her party dress. She collapsed onto her bed, the stranger in the guest room already forgotten in her drunken haze.