Zaiyo had never been the best-looking guy in the room, but he didn't need to be. His confidence swallowed space, filled it, suffocated anyone weak enough to fall under its weight. It was in the way he walked, the way his sharp eyes locked onto people like a predator watching prey. He wasn't tall, but that never mattered. His body, honed from years of pushing himself past the limit, made up for it. Women noticed. They always noticed.

But they never came close.

It wasn't because he was ugly. It wasn't because he was weak. It was because of them. The ones who whispered behind his back. The ones who threw looks when they thought he wouldn't catch them. The ones who still clung to the lie a girl had once spread, a lie that should have destroyed him.

But he survived.

He didn't chase. He didn't beg. He let them come to him.

And no one did.

So he focused on the one thing he could trust—his body. He played, he won, he dominated. Sports became his battlefield, his arena, his kingdom. By the time he was twenty, his face was on billboards. By twenty-five, he was a multimillionaire. Women surrounded him now, eager, desperate, willing. He indulged them, took his time, watched them tremble as he unraveled them with nothing but words, a touch, a look.

Like now.

The woman sitting across from him was already coming undone. She was beautiful, draped in a tight dress that showed off every curve, but it wasn't her body that entertained him. It was how easy it was to make her squirm. Her fingers gripped the glass too tightly, knuckles white. Her breathing was uneven.

Zaiyo smirked. He leaned forward just enough that his voice slid over her like silk, deep and deliberate.

"You're nervous."

Her lips parted. She blinked rapidly. "I'm not."

His smirk widened. Slow. Taunting.

"Lying isn't your thing, is it?"

She swallowed hard. Her legs shifted.

Zaiyo dragged his fingers over the rim of his glass, slow, lazy. He watched her throat bob, watched her thighs press together just a little tighter.

He didn't even have to touch her.

His voice alone was enough to make her sweat.

He took his time, let the moment stretch, let the tension coil. He could lean in now, whisper something against her skin, watch her body light up before he even laid a finger on her. He had done it before. He could do it again.

But then—

A shift in the air.

A presence.

Zaiyo's eyes flicked past the woman, past the noise, past the crowd. And there she was.

Sitting at the bar, alone.

The girl who once ignored him.

His blood ran hot. Not with anger. Not with resentment. But with something far more dangerous.

She hadn't changed. Not in the way that mattered. She still carried herself like she was untouchable, still radiated that effortless beauty that had drawn him in years ago.

He wasn't listening to the woman in front of him anymore.

His focus was locked.

His interest was piqued.

And this time, she would not ignore him.