His Princess.

Chapter 1

Allie's pov:

I wasn’t even supposed to be out that night.

My plan was simple: finish my accounting assignment, eat the leftover pasta in my fridge, and fall asleep to some mindless Netflix show. But at 10:47 p.m., my best friend, Lucille barged into my room wearing a glittery dress and a familiar look that meant get ready now.

And because she has a talent for dragging me into chaos, forty minutes later, I was standing under the neon lights of Club Velluto—the kind of place where the music vibrates in your bones and the air smells like perfume, whiskey, and bad decisions.

I told myself I wouldn’t drink too much. I told myself I’d be home by two.

I told myself a lot of lies.

The moment I stepped inside, I felt him.

Not saw him. Felt him.
That unsettling prickle across your skin when someone’s eyes linger too long.

I tried to ignore it, letting the bass pull me toward the dance floor. Bodies moved around me, lights flickered, and someone brushed past my shoulder, but that awareness never left. Like a hand lightly touching the back of my neck.

I kept dancing. I kept pretending I didn’t care. And then I looked up.

And I saw him.

Standing near the VIP section, half in shadow, half illuminated by a golden overhead light—watching me with the kind of attention that could unravel someone from the inside. He wasn’t dressed for a club. No flashy chains, no loud shirt. Just a white button-down rolled at the sleeves, a loosened black tie, dark slacks. Clean. Sharp. Powerful in a quiet way that was somehow louder than the music.

He is dangerous. I could see it in the bone structure, the dark hair slicked back, the subtle stubble, the cold, assessing expression that softened for exactly two seconds when our eyes met.

My heart stuttered.
His gaze didn’t.

I looked away first.

Of course I did.

“Girl, you good?” Lucille shouted over the music.

“Yeah,” I lied again. “Bathroom.”

I pushed through the crowd, trying not to think about his eyes on my skin.

Inside the restroom, I splashed water on my face. I told myself to stop acting like a character in the very Wattpad stories I read at fourteen. I was twenty-one, responsible, logical. I had exams in a week. I did not have time for mysterious men who stared like they knew your secrets.

When I stepped back into the hallway, he was there.

As if he’d been waiting.

He didn’t touch me. Didn’t crowd me. Just stood a few steps away, leaning casually against the wall, exuding a kind of tension that didn’t match the lazy pose.

Up close, he was… tall. And broad. Built like someone who didn’t need to raise his voice to be taken seriously.

His eyes swept over my face, not my body. Slow. Intentional. Like he was memorizing something.

“You disappeared.”
His voice was low, an accent was there, smooth but edged with something dangerous.

I blinked. “I… went to the bathroom.”

“I figured.”
A hint of a smirk tugged at his mouth.

He straightened, hands sliding into his pockets. “What’s your name?”

I should’ve walked away. I should’ve thought about safety, about strangers, about the fact that men who look like that are almost always trouble.

But something about him felt… safe. Not harmless, but safe. Like he was the danger other dangers feared.

“Why?” I asked instead.

His smirk deepened. “Because I’d like to know who I’ve been watching for the last twenty minutes.”

My breath caught.

“Maybe,” I said slowly, “you shouldn’t stare at strangers.”

“Maybe,” he countered, “you shouldn’t look so hard to ignore.”

I felt heat crawl up my neck.
I hated that he noticed.

Before I could respond, the club’s security, massive men in black suits passed us. Each one gave him a respectful nod. Not the kind they give a regular customer. It's more like acknowledgement.

Recognition.

Authority.

He didn’t return the nods. He didn’t need to.

“Who are you?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He tilted his head slightly, studying me with those unreadable dark eyes.

“Someone who’d like to buy you a drink,” he said softly. “If you’ll let me.”

Something about his tone made it feel less like a request and more like the beginning of something inevitable.

I swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of how quiet the hallway was, how close he stood, how the lights behind him traced the outline of his shoulders.

“My name is Allie Thompson” I finally said, giving it to him.

He repeated it, slowly, like tasting it, like storing it somewhere deep.

“And you?” I asked.

A brief pause.

“Luca.”

Just that. No last name. No details. No explanations.

But the way he said it, the way the walls of the club seemed to shift around his presence… it felt like I should’ve recognized the name already.

He offered his hand not to hold mine, but like he was inviting me to choose.

Walk away.
Or step into whatever this was.

I took a breath.

And placed my hand in his.

That was the moment everything in my life changed, though I wouldn’t know it until much, much later.