The night in New York felt colder than ever, with a wind that bit to the bone and carried the distant roar of cars. Hasley had just turned eighteen three days ago, and she hadn't received a hug or a gift, but shoves and threats: her father, blinded by debt and the rage of suffocating poverty, had dragged her to this lonely corner, forced her into a dress too short and light, and smeared her face with makeup that made her look older, but couldn't hide how tender and frightened she was. She had never kissed anyone, hadn't even left her hometown alone; now she was here, shivering so hard her teeth chattered, not knowing what to do or where to run, with fear stuck to her skin as much as the cold.
A few meters away, Luke walked with a firm step, imposing in his six-foot-six stature, his athletic figure covered by a suit that cost more than his family would earn in a lifetime. His blond hair shone faintly under the streetlight, and his pale skin contrasted with the intense blue of his eyes, which looked at everything with disdain and weariness: he was one of the richest men in the country, accustomed to buying whatever he wanted, to having no one dare contradict him, and that night he only sought to silence the noise of his business with a bit of distraction without strings attached. He didn't expect to find someone like her: a girl who looked on the verge of shattering, who lowered her head as soon as their eyes met, and who didn't seem to be there by choice.
He stopped right in front of her, looked her up and down with that characteristic coldness, curled his pale pink lips into a sarcastic sneer, and asked in a sharp voice, not knowing that those words would change the course of them both: —How much by the hour?
