The morning sun blazed over Pinecrest Golf Club, turning the manicured fairways into a shimmering green sea. It was the kind of day that made people believe in second chances, which was ironic because Alexa Smith didn’t believe in anything she couldn’t control. She adjusted her sunglasses, the lenses tinted just enough to hide the exhaustion in her eyes. Last night had been another round of pacing her loft, blueprints spread across her desk, as she chased the perfect design that had made her one of the most sought-after architects in the city. Sleep was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not with the Sterling Tower project looming over her like a guillotine. Her mother’s voice echoed in her head: "Smiths don’t settle for good enough." Golf was supposed to be her escape. Her outfit defied expectations: a snug white polo knotted at her waist, a pleated mini skirt that flouted the club’s strict dress code, and knee-high socks that showcased legs toned from years of sprinting through life faster than anyone could keep up. Her dark hair was piled into a messy ponytail, loose strands framing a face that had been called "stunning" by men who soon realized her beauty was a warning, not an invitation. Three fairways over, Sean Daniel watched her through the haze of his cigar smoke, his game forgotten. He shouldn’t have been there. The board meeting at Daniel Holdings had run late again, and his mother’s disapproving glare still stung in his mind. "You’re too reckless with our name," the old man had growled, as if Sean hadn’t spent a decade cleaning up the family’s dirtier secrets. The golf course was his sanctuary, the one place where the weight of his last name didn’t feel like a noose. He looked every bit the privileged heir in his tailored navy polo and pressed khakis, but the gold watch on his wrist was a trophy from a hard-won deal, and the scar above his eyebrow. That came from a fight he chose to keep quiet about. Then he saw her. Alexa’s swing was all power and no patience, the club slicing through the air with fierce grace. Daniel’s lips curved as her ball rocketed off-course—straight toward him. It landed with a thud at his feet, rolling to a stop against his expensive loafers. "You’re trespassing," he called, nudging the ball with his shoe. She strode toward him, the wind tugging at her skirt, her chin lifted in defiance. "And you’re in my way." Up close, she was even more captivating. Her perfume was something citrus and dangerous, and her eyes—Christ, her eyes—were the colour of whiskey held up to the light. He hated how his pulse quickened when her gaze swept over him, lingering on the scar he never explained. "You play as you dress," he said, "like you’re trying to start a war." "You talk like you’ve never lost one," she shot back. He laughed, low and unapologetic. "Buy you a drink while I explain the rules?” "Only if you’re buying forgiveness for that personality." It should have ended there. A spark, a shrug, another forgettable clash of egos. But when he handed her his club, their fingers brushed. Neither of them knew this was where it would start: the love that would wreck them, the betrayal that would nearly destroy them, and the hostage crisis that would force them to choose. The Sterling Tower blueprints in her bag and the bloodstain on his watch dial whispered secrets neither was ready to confess—yet