Ford Art Exhibition Center, New York City
The room buzzed with excitement, filled with influential and wealthy guests. The Ford Art Gallery was hosting its most prestigious exhibit yet—featuring a masterpiece by the famous Leonardo Rio. The artwork wasn't just a masterpiece; it was rumored to contain something far more valuable—a stash of smuggled diamonds.
Damian Ford stood proudly beside the painting, greeting guests, unaware of the looming threat. In the shadows, a plan was being set into motion.
Agent Twilight, the Black Alliance's top operative, stood ready in her sleek black hoodie-sweater, her face hidden behind a mask. She had infiltrated high-security buildings before, and this was no different. A raid on Ford's Gallery would be her finest job yet.
"Let's get this done," she whispered to herself, eyes scanning the room full of art lovers. She was in. No one noticed her slipping through the crowd.
Her first task: neutralize the bartender.
She spotted him in the secluded kitchen, easily distracted and completely unaware of the danger creeping behind him. In an instant, she was upon him, using precise pressure points to knock him out cold, leaving him unconscious and hidden in the fridge. No one would notice. Not yet.
Disguised as a bartender, Iris Olsen—agent Twilight—was almost invisible among the guests. A flash of her earphones buzzed to life.
"Twilight copy," came the voice of Agent Skywalker through her earpiece.
"Mission's going smoothly. I've infiltrated their ranks, heading for the vault," she responded, voice smooth and confident.
She made her way to the elevator, but not without a bit of trouble. A security officer stopped her as she entered.
"Where are you going?" he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.
"A lady in the room requested my services," Iris lied smoothly, plastering a smile on her face.
The officer wasn't convinced but shrugged it off. "Just make sure you return to your post."
Iris clenched her fists as he turned and left. "Damn it, got too close."
But that was only the beginning.
Iris quickly spotted another guard alone, smoking by the corner. He was an easy target. A quick move and she had him slumped in an empty room, her sleeping gas-soaked handkerchief making him unconscious.
"Not bad," she muttered under her breath as she continued her stealthy approach. Each step took her closer to the vault.
The vault room was more secure than anything she'd encountered, but nothing Iris couldn't handle. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she hacked into the security system, overriding the locks and cameras. The countdown began.
She snapped a photo of the painting with the cameras disabled and then stepped into the vault. She could feel the tension rise.
And there it was.
The painting was beautiful—hypnotizing—but that wasn't her real prize. She peeled back the layers, revealing the diamonds sealed within the artwork.
She grinned. "Jackpot."
But just as she turned to leave, her foot hit a pressure plate. A series of snipers activated, aiming at her. Iris dodged, expertly weaving between the deadly shots as the traps triggered. The vault room was a deadly maze, but she made it out unscathed.
Now to escape.
Her plan was simple—get the diamonds out without anyone noticing.
Pushing a cart draped with a white cloth, she casually moved toward the exit, holding the precious cargo. But then, of course, trouble found her.
"Excuse me," came a voice from behind.
Iris cursed under her breath. Not now.
She picked up her pace, moving faster, but the man wouldn't let up. Soon, she was sprinting, pushing the cart with one hand as she darted through the hall. The chase was on.
She dove into the elevator just as the doors were about to close. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she caught her breath. But the relief was short-lived.
The elevator door opened, revealing none other than a man who looked like he stepped out of a Greek myth—tall, dark, and dangerously handsome.
He looked at her with an intense gaze, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.
"Care to explain?" His voice was smooth and calm, but his eyes were sharp, studying her every move.
Iris froze, momentarily mesmerized. She hadn't expected this. She wasn't prepared to be distracted, especially not by a man like him.
But then reality kicked in. She glanced around, her heart racing, and she noticed her hands were clutching his shirt tightly. What the hell?
Iris slapped her face, trying to shake off the momentary lapse in control. "Get a grip," she muttered.
The elevator door was about to open, and without a second thought, she quickly unbuttoned her disguise. The apron came off in a swift motion, tossed into the elevator with a casual flick. She had no intention of being seen like this.
Before she could think twice, she rushed forward and hugged him tight, burying her face in his chest. The warmth of his body was immediate, and it sent a rush of heat through her. The scent of his cologne was intoxicating, and for a fleeting moment, she lost herself in the softness of his shirt, breathing in deeply, as though trying to erase the chaos of the night.
Her heart pounded against him, and in that moment, everything else faded.
She didn't know what was happening—her body was moving faster than her mind, a reflex she couldn't control. But he didn't pull away. His arms wrapped around her, holding her there as the seconds stretched into eternity.
"Mr. Quinn, please, have you seen a woman around here?" The middle-aged man's voice was laced with urgency.
Quinn's eyes remained calm, his expression as cold as ever. Without a flicker of hesitation, he replied, "No. It's just me, my girlfriend, and my secretary."
The middle-aged man shot Iris a suspicious glance, but thankfully, her head remained buried in Alexander's chest. Eyes widened in disbelief. "G...girl...fr...ien...d?" they stammered.
Alexander's gaze darkened, his voice lowering to a dangerous murmur. "She is mine. Any problem?" The words hung in the air, thick with threat. Who would've thought the untouchable Mr. Quinn—Europe's wealthiest tycoon—had a girlfriend? The revelation hit the crowd like a thunderclap. Their pursuit had uncovered something far juicier than expected.
"Congratulations, Mr. Quinn,"the bodyguard and others muttered, heads bowed. "Let's go," the middle-aged man grumbled, turning to resume the search.
As they walked off, Iris slowly released her grip from Alexander's chest, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. "Oops, my bad."
She tried to turn and leave.
"Where do you think you're going, babe?" His voice was teasing, but the dark edge beneath it sent a shiver down her spine.
Iris stiffened, slowly turning her head. She noticed the men's reactions, and the simmering danger in Alexander's presence. This wasn't just any man.
"Thank you for your help, mister, but the show's over. Time to take a bow and exit."
To anyone else, it might've sounded polite, even considerate. But to Alexander Quinn—a narcissist who thrived on power—it was a dismissal. A challenge to his pride. He wasn't someone you simply walked away from.
"Hmm,"he murmured, stepping closer. "First of all, I don't have a girlfriend. Second, I'm not your gigolo, but you used me, held me, hugged me. Technically, I could sue you for molestation." His eyes locked onto hers, lips curving into a dangerous grin. "I think I'd like the show to continue. What do you think?"
Iris froze. Her mind raced, but she was more interested in escaping than engaging in his absurd threat. "What do you want as a reward for your service?" she asked, trying to shift the conversation away from his ludicrous lawsuit.
He raised an eyebrow. "Hmm. You owe me a favor."
Iris didn't have time for this. I have to get out of here with those diamonds.
"How about a blind date?" he teased, knowing full well how absurd the suggestion was. Iris felt her head spin.
"A blind date?" she said incredulously. "Are you kidding me? This is extortion!"
He chuckled. "You'd be surprised. Now, how about a name and number?"
Iris growled in frustration but relented. "Fine." She scribbled down her name and a fake phone number, shoving it into his hand. "Now let me go. I've got a building to blow up."
With that, she stormed out of the elevator, the chaos of the gallery behind her.
As she stepped into the night air, the entire building erupted in panic.
"The painting's gone!"
"How is that possible?"
"Shut the doors! No one gets in or out!"
Mission complete. Iris couldn't help but smirk as she walked away from the scene. She had done it. No trace, no witnesses.
"Well," she thought, glancing at her phone, "I guess I've got a date."
----
Meanwhile, in the parking lot, Alexander Quinn stared at the crumpled slip of paper in his hand. Iris Olsen. Phone number.
Huh. That was new.
Wasn't he supposed to be allergic to women? Their perfume, their touch, their overly dramatic shrieking? Then why the hell hadn't he reacted when that woman hugged him?
"Maybe it's because she's too manly," Matteo muttered beside him, trying to stifle a laugh.
Alexander didn't answer. His golden eyes were still fixed on the paper, unreadable.
"Or maybe," Matteo added with a grin, "she didn't wear perfume. Natural scent and all that. Very... gender-neutral."
Still, no response.
Matteo scratched his head. Could Boss be... falling for a woman? His eyes widened in slow horror. No. No way. This is Alexander Quinn, the God of Ice and Contracts. Love is allergic to him.
But then he looked at the name again. Iris Olsen. Huh.
"I'll treat her well," Matteo declared proudly, puffing out his chest. "Whenever I see her again, I'll bow. Respectfully. That woman might just be my future... boss lady."
With a twirl that made absolutely no sense, Matteo spun around singing dramatically, and grinning like a fool. "So this is love... hmm... it feels stupid already!"
Then—
BOOM!
An explosion ripped through the sky, rattling glass and shaking the ground. Screams followed. Flames crackled.
Matteo jumped three feet into the air. "HOLY HELL—What the hell just exploded?!"
Alexander didn't flinch. His eyes followed the smoke, calm, almost... entertained.
"You weren't joking after all, Iris Olsen," he said softly, more to himself than anyone else. There was a strange glint in his eyes—cold curiosity wrapped in something darker. Amusement? Interest? Madness?
"Boss, are you seeing this?!" Matteo was now screaming, grabbing his arm, half-panicked.
Alexander nodded slowly.
"We need to go," he said coolly, licking his lips as if tasting the chaos. Then he chuckled—a deep, low sound that made Matteo's skin crawl.
"How... interesting."