The night Trinidad entered the Clifford mansion was never an accident.
Colt had known.
Hours before she stepped onto the estate, a message had appeared on his private security system.
Unauthorized breach planned. Female target. Age estimated: early twenties. Route attached.
Most men in his position would have doubled security.
Colt did the opposite.
He dismissed two guards from the west wing.
Disabled the second motion sensor.
Left the private hallway camera looping old footage.
And unlocked the side entrance for exactly three minutes.
He had even stood in the shadows, watching through hidden monitors as she slipped past the gates with nervous steps and stubborn eyes.
Small frame.
Cheap clothes.
Brave face.
Terrified heartbeat.
He had expected greed.
Instead, he saw desperation.
Then he heard her whisper to herself.
I'm doing this for Dad.
That was the moment he decided not to stop her.
No one entered his world without permission.
And no one touched his money unless he allowed it.
Trinidad Montana had done both.
Because he wanted her to.
Back to the present.
The moment Trinidad's hand landed in Colt's, both of them stiffened.
A strange jolt shot through their joined palms.
Sharp.
Unexpected.
Dangerous.
Trinidad tried to pull back first, but Colt's fingers closed around hers for one extra second before releasing.
His expression remained unreadable.
But his dark eyes had changed.
Just slightly.
A maid stepped forward quickly and bowed.
"Miss… I mean, Madam, please follow me."
Trinidad almost choked.
Madam?
She threw Colt one last suspicious look before following the maid upstairs.
The mansion hallway alone looked bigger than her entire apartment building.
Paintings lined the walls.
Crystal chandeliers glowed above.
Fresh flowers filled the air with soft perfume.
Every corner screamed wealth.
The maid opened double doors.
Trinidad froze.
The bedroom was breathtaking.
Silk curtains flowed beside tall windows.
A bed large enough for five people sat in the center, dressed in cream sheets and gold pillows.
A fireplace glowed softly.
There was a private lounge, vanity table, walk-in closet, and a balcony overlooking the city lights.
The room looked ethereal.
Like something pulled from a dream she could never afford.
"Wow…" she whispered.
The maid smiled nervously.
"My name is Stacy, Madam. I'll be your personal assistant from today."
Trinidad turned to her.
Stacy looked young, petite, and delicate. Her hands trembled while she spoke, and her voice shook like she expected to be punished for every word.
"You don't have to call me Madam," Trinidad said gently.
Stacy's eyes widened. "B-But sir ordered—"
"And you don't have to be scared of me either."
She walked closer.
Stacy instantly flinched.
That made Trinidad's chest tighten.
What kind of place was this?
Trinidad placed a soft hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Relax. I don't bite."
For a second, Stacy stared at her.
Then slowly… she smiled.
The trembling eased.
"Yes… Miss Trinidad."
"That's better."
In another room of the mansion, hidden far from the family wing, darkness ruled.
Only the orange tip of a cigarette glowed.
Smoke curled beautifully through the air, wrapping around the figure seated by the window.
His face remained hidden.
A robotic voice echoed from the phone in his hand.
"The girl entered as predicted. She attempted theft. Colt Clifford has taken her in."
Silence.
Then the unknown man smirked.
Interesting.
He took a long drag from the cigarette before ending the call.
The room fell quiet again.
No one knew him.
No one saw him.
But one truth remained—
He hated Colt Clifford.
And hatred was a patient thing.
Elsewhere in the city, music blasted through a luxurious studio.
Dylan Brooke stood before a microphone, headphones around his neck, singing the final line of a new song.
Even while practicing alone, he looked like a star.
His loose white shirt hung open at the collar, revealing smooth skin and a silver chain. Black fitted pants hugged his long legs, and his soft blond-brown hair fell messily over his forehead.
Everything about Dylan looked expensive and effortless.
He ended the note and exhaled.
"Tired," he muttered.
Across the room, Franco sat on a couch with a gaming headset over his ears, fingers moving calmly over a controller.
Unlike Dylan, Franco dressed with no concern for attention.
Black hoodie.
Dark joggers.
Simple sneakers.
Quiet colors for a quiet man.
Yet somehow, he still looked annoyingly attractive.
Dylan walked over and dropped beside him.
"You know, normal people speak with their mouths."
Franco nodded once.
Dylan rolled his eyes.
"How was your day?"
Another nod.
"Did you miss me?"
A pause.
Then Franco shook his head.
Dylan gasped dramatically. "Heartless creature."
Franco's lips twitched faintly.
That was enough to count as laughter.
Years ago, when the others were loud, reckless, and impossible to control, Franco had been the stranger who silently fixed every mess they made.
Reid got into a fight? Franco hacked the cameras.
Dylan got mobbed by fans? Franco created a distraction.
Colt needed information? Franco already had it.
He never asked to join them.
He simply stayed.
And somehow became irreplaceable.
Back at the mansion, Trinidad sat cross-legged on the giant bed while Stacy unpacked clothing from bags brought in by the staff.
"This one is from Paris… this from Milan… and these are custom-made," Stacy explained shyly.
Trinidad nearly fainted.
"One dress can feed my street for a year."
Stacy giggled softly.
The sound surprised both of them.
They had spent the last hour talking like old friends.
For the first time since entering the mansion, Trinidad felt less alone.
Then another maid rushed in.
"Stacy! Head housekeeper needs you in the kitchen now."
Stacy stood immediately.
"I'll be back soon."
She hurried out.
Seconds later, a tall guard appeared at the door.
"Madam, the boss is calling for you."
Trinidad frowned.
"The boss?"
"Mr. Clifford."
Of course.
She stood and glanced around.
Her eyes landed on a soft ivory nightdress laid neatly across the bed.
It looked comfortable enough.
Without thinking twice, she changed quickly.
The fabric felt light and cool against her skin.
She didn't notice how thin it was.
Or how the bright room made it nearly transparent.
The guard led her through long hallways until they stopped before large black doors.
"Inside."
Trinidad swallowed.
She knocked twice.
"Come in."
His voice alone sent heat up her spine.
She pushed the door open.
Colt stood by the window, one hand in his pocket, city lights behind him like a crown.
He had changed into dark lounge pants and a fitted shirt that stretched over broad shoulders.
Dangerously handsome.
Infuriatingly handsome.
He turned.
Their eyes locked.
For one second, no one moved.
Then his gaze slowly dropped.
From her face.
To her neck.
Lower.
And lower.
The air changed.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes darkened into something hot and unreadable.
When they rose back to meet hers, his voice came out deeper than before.
"YOU TRYING TO SEDUCE ALL THE MEN IN THIS PALACE WITH YOUR DRESS?"