>Venzrich Archeval
People called many things—genius, prodigy, billionaire, devil.
Topping the charts number of tis than I can rember.
But the title that stuck, the one I hated the most, was the most handso man alive.
I didn’t choose that label. The internet did. A single photograph from an event years ago— in a black tux, looking at my watch—was enough to birth a thousand fan accounts and endless, nauseating edits.
It was flattering for about ten minutes, then it turned into a curse.
When people look at you and see perfection, you stop being human. I had to deal with stalkers, obsessed fans and the dia was monitoring my every move. I’m not even a celebrity.
But more than that, I hated won’s touch more than anyone.
So yes, I’m used to people staring at .
But not like she did.
The girl with the big eyes, trembling hands, and the worst alcohol tolerance I had ever seen in my life.
When I caught her that first ti—her knees about to give out, her body crumpling from too much tequila—my reflexes kicked in. I didn’t an to do it, I was just there the mont it happened. Without thinking, I wrapped an arm around her waist, steadying her. She slled like li, expensive perfu, and alcohol.
Then she looked at . Blinked once. Twice. And said, with total conviction:
"You’re ugly."
I almost dropped her.
No one, in my twenty-five years of life, had ever called ugly. I’d been called intimidating, arrogant, heartless—even inhuman—but ugly? That was new.
I thought she might be joking, but her expression was painfully serious, like she was announcing a dical diagnosis.
Then she pushed like I was so kind of monster, pointed at my face and declared, "I can’t have a baby with a man like you."
For a mont, I wondered if I’d been drugged too. I didn’t know there’s gonna be a ti where I a woman will spark an interest inside .
I should’ve walked away and ignore her like I always did. Any sane man would have. But curiosity rooted to the spot. There was sothing absurdly refreshing about her—soone who didn’t lt or preen or flirt. She was drunk, disoriented, and possibly hallucinating, but she looked at like I was a bad painting she wanted to return.
When she waved goodbye and tottered off, I actually wanted to laughed.
And I don’t laugh easily.
---
A few minutes later, I found myself just looking at her, half-watching her from the corner of my eye as I tried to focus on my drink. Even I don’t understand why I would choose to sit next to her.
The bartender was hesitant to serve her, probably because she already looked like she’d had enough alcohol to fuel a small campfire.
I didn’t bla him. The girl was a hazard.
Still, there was sothing... oddly magnetic about her. The way she kept trying to act composed while her head wobbled slightly, her effort to look dignified as she ordered "One more tequila, please!" like she was asking for water.
When the bartender hesitated again, I intervened without really thinking.
"Didn’t you hear the young miss?" I said, letting my voice drop low.
She turned toward , slow as if the world was moving through syrup. When her gaze t mine, her eyes widened, and for a split second, I thought she’d recognized .
But no.
"Why is it you again, Four Eyes?!" she whined.
Four Eyes.
I wasn’t even wearing glasses.
I bit back a laugh, leaning closer. "Why not? You hate how ugly I am?" I whispered, close enough that she’d hear the teasing edge in my voice.
Her reaction was imdiate—her whole body tensed, like a string pulled tight. Then she gasped, slapped a hand over her mouth, and looked at as if she’d just committed a cri.
"Did I... perhaps offend you?" she asked, horrified.
God, she was sothing else.
She clasped her hands like she was praying, cheeks flushed pink—not just from the alcohol, but from sheer mortification.
"I’m sorry! I didn’t an to insult you! My mouth sotis—sotis it just—says things!"
"What?" I blinked, caught between laughter and disbelief.
She nodded furiously. "I’ll pay for your drink as an apology!"
Now, this was getting interesting.
I decided to push back, just a little. "Really? Can you afford it?"
Her chin lifted in challenge. "Of course! How much was it?"
I smirked. "Six hundred dollars. Per glass."
Her face froze like I’d just told her her rent was due in gold bars. Then she started counting with her finger, mumbling to herself. She turned to look at , her smile was awkward.
"Just one?" she croaked.
That’s when I lost it. I chuckled. And I couldn’t rember the last ti I genuinely wanted to laugh.
Up close, I could see her better under the bar’s dim golden lights. Her makeup was slightly smudged, her hair a little out of place, but there was sothing arresting about her—sothing raw and unfiltered.
She wasn’t beautiful in the polished, magazine-cover way. She was beautiful in the real way. The kind of beauty that wasn’t aware of itself.
And that made her even more dangerous.
She stared at like I was both a puzzle and a dare. Then, with the determination of a woman possessed, she downed another tequila shot.
Her throat moved as she swallowed, her eyes glistening. In a split second she closed the distance between us.
Then she said it.
"Hey! I know this ca out of nowhere but..."
I turned to face her fully, resting an elbow on the counter and raising my brow. "Hmm?"
She grabbed my hand—warm, unsteady fingers wrapping around mine—and said with all the seriousness in the world.
"Will you sleep with ?"
---
For a mont, I thought I’d misheard her.
The bar noise faded into a dull hum. The people, the music, even the sll of liquor—all of it blurred out.
I just stared at her.
This drunk little stranger, with her ssy hair and trembling voice, had no idea who she was talking to. No idea that the man she’d just propositioned was the sa man her country’s tabloids called "the untouchable bachelor." Maybe she did? Did she approach just because of that?
There’s a possibility that’s the case. But for so reason, I couldn’t look away.
I should’ve walked away like I always did. Politely declined. God knows that would’ve been the smart thing to do especially coming from a drunk woman.
But as she looked up at , her lips parted, her eyes glassy but determined, sothing about her disard .
I leaned in slightly, studying her. "Do you always ask strangers that question?"
She blinked. "Only handso ones."
Handso ones.
I almost snorted.
The irony wasn’t lost on —five minutes ago, she’d called ugly. Now, I was apparently promotion-worthy.
"You think I’m handso now?" I asked, amused.
She squinted at , tilting her head. "Maybe. Depends on the lighting."
God, she was chaos wrapped in silk.
"Alright," I said finally, curiosity getting the better of . "Tell sothing first. What’s your na?"
She opened her mouth to answer, then frowned, like she was trying to rember sothing. "Mar...ry?."
"Mary," I repeated, letting the na roll off my tongue. She paused for a few second then nodded.
"And you want to sleep with you?"
"Yes."
Her gaze that was full of conviction awakened sothing inside . I didn’t even know I find this kind of thing attractive until now.
But for so reason, the thing that never really woken up from anyone all these years was alive, pulsating, and hungry.
I pulled her waist closer with my arms closing the distance between us until our body brushed against each other, my lips playing softly with her ears.
And in breathy, raspy voice I whispered,
"You better not regret this woman."
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