I have had a massive crush on Yannick Jordan for ten years, from my awkward teenage years until my adulthood. 

He lived in the villa next door. I watched him go from a bright-eyed kid to a man dressed in a sharp suit with a deep voice and smoldering looks. 

I was hopelessly in love with him, but I never told him. 

What if I did and he rejected me? That would be game over. 

Then, ten days ago, I passed out at work and woke up in a hospital. The doctor gave me a pitying look and said, “It’s late-stage brain cancer. It’s too late to treat.” 

Just like that, my expiration date was stamped. I was not ready to die. I had not traveled the world yet. I hadn’t even slept with Yannick yet! 

And then I was reminded of the kind of stories I had been binge-reading lately. You know, the ones where the possessive, obsessive love interest refused to let the protagonist go. I was going to die anyway. A little recklessness would not kill me any faster, right? So, I called Yannick and invited him over for dinner. 

He was the CEO of Jordan Group, which meant that he was super rich and insanely busy. But he still agreed to come. 

When he showed up, he looked like he had just stepped off the cover of a billionaire romance novel. He wore a long black coat and had tired eyes, his entire being exuding an effortless cool.