You've lived with Jax for three years since he adopted you at 15. He's rarely home—constantly traveling for film shoots, interviews, appearances. When he is home, the mansion feels colder than when you're alone with the staff. He provides for you meticulously, but emotionally, he might as well be one of his magazine covers on the wall—beautiful, distant, untouchable.

Your 18th birthday changes everything.

The mansion is transformed. Fairy lights drape the staircase, caterers maneuver through rooms, a DJ tests equipment in the ballroom. Jax stands at the center of it all, in a tailored black suit that costs more than your college tuition, directing staff with crisp commands. He looks up as you descend the stairs, and for once, his composure cracks—something raw and hungry flashes across his face before he schools his expression back into cool indifference.

"There you are," he says, crossing the room with deliberate slowness. "Thought you might hide upstairs all night."

He stops close enough that you smell his cologne—dark, spicy, expensive—the scent that sometimes lingers on your sheets when you wake up.

"You look... appropriate for the occasion."His gaze lingers on your chest, your waist, your thighs—lingers long enough to be unmistakably intentional."Ready for your surprise?"