The Price Of Forever

The city didn't sleep, but tonight neither did I.

From the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, Manhattan sprawled out like a glittering circuit board, veins of light pulsing through its streets. Cars weaved like fireflies. Skyscrapers towered against the night, monuments to ambition and greed. They were supposed to make me feel powerful, this view, this kingdom I had built with my own hands.

Instead, it felt empty.

I stalked the living room barefoot, tumbler of scotch in hand, shirt unbuttoned halfway. The air smelled faintly of leather and whiskey. A million-dollar apartment and not a single trace of warmth. I could have been in a glass cage suspended above the world.

And in that cage, one thought looped endlessly.

Her.

Gigi Jasmine.

She had walked past me at the gala like I was just another man in a suit. She had looked me in the eye and dismissed me with nothing but a polite smile. No awe, no hunger, no desperation-the usual cocktail of expressions I got from women who knew my name.

I should have forgotten her by now. Instead, every time I closed my eyes, I saw her again. That defiance. That quiet strength. That refusal to bend.

I took another swallow of scotch, the burn doing nothing to numb the irritation-or the hunger-curling through me.

"Christ, Jason, will you sit the hell down?"

Bobby's voice came from the couch, where he sprawled with his own glass. My best friend had been around long enough to recognize my moods, though I doubted even he had seen this one before.

I shot him a look, but his grin was lazy, unfazed.

"You're pacing holes into your floor," he said, swirling the amber liquid. "Not even a hostile takeover gets you this wound up. So what is it? Or should I say... who?"

I ignored him, turning back to the window.

"Don't play dumb with me, Jae," he pressed. "You've been off since the gala. I've known you long enough to spot it. You've got that look-the one you get before you decide to bulldoze someone."

I smirked faintly. "You make me sound like a psychopath."

"Am I wrong?"

I didn't answer.

Bobby leaned forward, his tone shifting. "Who is she?"

I could've lied. Pretended it was business. But the truth was written all over me already.

"Her name's Gigi Jasmine," I said finally. The sound of it was dangerous, addictive.

Bobby blinked. Then, slowly, a disbelieving chuckle. "No. You're not serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

"Jason..." He dragged a hand down his face. "Don't do this. I know that look. You're about to chase something you shouldn't."

I downed the rest of my drink and set the glass on the bar. "Since when do I ask permission?"

"This isn't about permission. It's about danger. You've got everything, Jae-money, power, control. Why risk it on a woman who doesn't even want you?"

That word doesn't want me-grated. It wasn't rejection. Not exactly. She hadn't even bothered to see me as a man worth rejecting. She had dismissed me without a thought.

And that, more than anything, was what had hooked me.

"You're overthinking it," I said coolly. "I'm curious, that's all."

Bobby's laugh was humorless. "You're obsessed. And obsessions destroy empires."

"Or build them," I countered.

Our eyes locked across the room. He shook his head, but I had already turned away. Advice was wasted on me. It always had been.

By the next afternoon, curiosity became action.

I sat behind my desk at Jae Enterprises, the skyline rising behind me, a silent fortress of glass and steel. My assistant placed a slim folder in front of me, her expression tight. I didn't miss the flicker of confusion in her eyes. She'd never been asked to run a background check on a woman before. Competitors, yes. CEOs, politicians, threats. But not a woman who had smiled once and walked away.

I opened the folder.

Her face looked up at me from a grainy photograph, stolen from some magazine feature about local curators. The camera hadn't done her justice. In person, she had been sharper, brighter. But even here, the quiet poise in her expression burned through.

"Gigi Jasmine," I murmured under my breath.

Twenty-six. Art curator at Bellamy Gallery. Middle-class background. No scandals. No strings. Just... clean. Untouched.

But there was something else. A note scribbled in the margins.

Bellamy Gallery nearly collapsed five years ago. Rescued by anonymous private funding.

I stared at that line for a long time. Anonymous funding. Money had saved her career, her sanctuary. Whose money? Why?

The thought unsettled me in a way I couldn't explain.

I flipped through more photos. She is at the exhibition. Her paintings. She speaks to artists. Always so composed, so steady, as if her life was insulated from the chaos I thrived on.

And yet, I wanted to walk right into that calm and shatter it.

A slow smile spread across my face.

Some men sent flowers. I sent opportunities.

She worked in a gallery? Then I would own it. Fund it. Breathe new life into it until every wall she walks past carries my name. Until she couldn't step into her sanctuary without feeling me there.

She would resist. Of course she would. But the walls always cracked.

That night, I didn't send an assistant or a driver. Some things couldn't be delegated.

I slipped into my car and drove myself downtown, the city humming like a living beast around me. Neon signs bled color onto the sidewalks. Music thumped from rooftop bars. But I wasn't here for any of it.

The Bellamy Gallery stood quietly on a corner of SoHo. Glass walls gleamed under the streetlamps, revealing glimpses of paintings inside. Compared to the skyscrapers I ruled over, it looked fragile. A jewel box.

I parked across the street, engine idling, cigarette between my fingers. Smoke curled out the window as I watched.

And then I saw her.

Through the glass, Gigi was inside, cardigan draped over her shoulders, hair pulled into a loose knot. She moved carefully, rearranging frames, her hands brushing each canvas with a reverence that made my chest tighten. She was alone in her world, pouring herself into it.

For a moment, I just watched. I didn't even breathe. She wasn't performing. She wasn't aware of eyes on her. She was simply herself-focused, alive, and real.

Something twisted in me, dark and hungry.

She didn't know it yet, but I'd already chosen her.

Movement in the corner of my vision snapped me out of it.

Another car. Sleek. Black. Parked half in shadow at the curb. I hadn't noticed it when I pulled up, but now it was unmistakable. Its tinted windows reflected the city lights, its presence deliberate.

The driver's door opened.

A man stepped out.

Tall. Composed. His suit wasn't loud or flashy like the nouveau riche. It was understated, the kind of elegance that came with old money and confidence. He didn't rush. Didn't fidget. Just stood there, in the pool of lamplight, watching the same woman I was watching.

He didn't knock. Didn't call out. He simply looked at her through the glass as though she already belonged to him.

My grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Predators recognize predators.

And this man wasn't ordinary. His presence radiated power, the quiet kind, the kind that didn't need to announce itself. He was dangerous. Not because of what he did, but because of what he didn't have to do.

Inside, Gigi bent over a canvas, utterly unaware that two men were circling her world from the shadows.

Heat flared in my chest. Possession. Rage. Determination.

She didn't even know I had chosen her.

And already, someone else was watching.

No.

This wouldn't stand.

I leaned back in my seat, eyes locked on the stranger, and a dark smile curved my lips.

If he thought she was his, he was about to learn what happened to men who wanted what I claimed.