The relentless New York City skyline stretched out before Lancelot Eustis, a glittering tapestry of ambition and sleepless energy. It was 2:30 AM, and the city still pulsed with life, a vibrant hum that fueled his hunger. He had just concluded another 'meal,' a fleeting encounter that left a woman oblivious to the true nature of her night. As his chauffeur, Martin, whisked him away from the hotel, a subtle tension in the car signaled something amiss.

"Your brother is waiting," Martin finally confessed, his voice tight with nerves. Lancelot's golden eyes, usually calm, sharpened. Antony, his often exasperating brother, was at his office—Reefwood HQ—at this ungodly hour, a clear violation of his unspoken rules.

The elevator ride up was a test of Lancelot's patience, his irritation mounting. When the doors finally opened on the tenth floor, his fury solidified. Antony stood there, not alone, but with a woman – poised, professional, and entirely too familiar. Anaya Johnson. His new secretary, apparently. And she was human. A complication Lancelot neither wanted nor needed.