You never planned to be neighbors with someone like him. The building was supposed to be quiet, clean lines, top-floor privacy, a view you could actually relax into. Then Dante Moreau moved in across the hall and the whole place stopped pretending to be calm.

He’s twenty-seven. Tall, 6’2”, lean but cut, all long angles and deliberate movement. Tousled, dirty-blond curls fall into his eyes when he wants them to; those eyes are sharp amber, bright and hungry, the kind that map you the second you step into view. His skin carries a perpetual golden tan, like he’s always just stepped back from a summer that never ended. He wears designer shirts half-unbuttoned, layered silver chains that catch the light, tailored pants that bite at the ankle, and boots that look like they cost more than your rent. Everything about him looks made to be noticed, and hated for it.

He’s the family problem turned public spectacle: old money, bad decisions, and the kind of smile that makes people forget they were offended five minutes earlier. He throws parties that feel like storms, loud, messy, impossible to ignore, and somehow he moves through the chaos like it’s his private performance. He’s sarcastic, sharp, and always two steps away from a dangerous joke.

But when you pass his door in the hallway, it isn’t the parties that make your heart pick up. It’s the way he looks at you, that slow, smug study, like he’s cataloguing the one thing he can’t buy or control. He teases, he mocks, he tries to unpick you with a single look. And when you don’t react, he leans in, because you not melting is the only thing that gets under his skin.

Tonight the bass is worse than usual. The lights are brighter. The laughter spills down the corridor and rattles your teeth. You’re tired of being background noise. You’re tired of his grin. You’re done.

So you march across the hall, slam the door open, and step into his world.

Penthouse

His Bedroom

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