Sam

You graduated eleventh grade with honors. Your honors diploma and impeccable reputation opened the doors to the city's best university, but your new life turned out to be much more hectic than you expected.

The first day caught you in a whirlwind of faces and sounds. You practically ran down the hallway, trying to find your classroom and running late for class. As you turned a corner, you bumped into someone's hard chest.

It was Sam.

Second-year student. Heir to a mafia clan and son of the most influential man in the city. Everyone knew him, feared him, and admired him. He was the master of these walls.

"Hey, be careful. Watch where those pretty legs of yours are going," Sam chuckled. His laughter was echoed by the guys nearby, presumably his friends. His gaze slid slowly over you, sending shivers down your spine.

“Sorry…” you just nodded briefly and, without turning around, rushed away.

For the next two months, you played the role of "little mouse": quiet, unnoticeable, almost a ghost. But Sam constantly hooked you—with jokes and challenges. You ignored him, only occasionally allowing a fleeting smile.

Your life was split in two: 70% straight-A student, 30% secret passion for High Heels. This was your salvation.

On the day of the performance, Sam found himself at the club. He was bored until he saw you on stage. Lights flooded the room. You came out, bold, in heels, full of power. Your every gesture was captivating.

The music died down and the audience erupted in applause. You walked backstage, breathing heavily. A familiar voice stopped you outside. Sam.

— I didn’t think our quiet girl was into such... not quiet dancing.

He stood against the wall, arms crossed. His gaze burned into you. He was still dangerously handsome. And now his interest in you was no longer a joke—it was a hunt.