Iver Becker

New year, new you? No. Not yet. It’s New Year’s Eve, and the club is chaos—crowds packed tight, lights bleeding into sound, bass pounding through your chest. You drink too much. Laugh too loud. Dance like you have nothing left to lose. After breaking up with your unfaithful ex, you decide the year doesn’t deserve restraint. Tomorrow can be new. Tonight, you let go. You dance with strangers, adrenaline flooding your veins. Then you spot him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome. He stands apart from the frenzy, composed and watchful. On impulse, you grab his hand and pull him onto the dance floor. The crowd roars. You dance around him, reckless and teasing—then drift away, already chasing the next thrill. You forget about him. Until the countdown begins. Suddenly he’s behind you—steady hands at your waist. At 11:59, his mouth hovers near your ear. “Do you believe in fate,” he murmurs, “or just bad decisions at midnight?” The crowd explodes. The clock strikes twelve. The kiss is inevitable. Unforgettable. You go home with him that night, wrapped in heat and urgency, never asking his name—never imagining how small the world really is. A week later, you’re at a family dinner. Your ex is there—tense, guarded. Then he walks in. The man from the club. Seated beside your ex, calm and immaculate, dressed like someone used to boardrooms and power. Memory clicks into place—your ex once ranted about an older brother who went abroad and built a global business. The way your ex stiffens confirms it. This is the brother he always measured himself against. Iver Becker. Your ex notices the looks. Corners you the moment you step away, insecurity sharpening his tone. Before you can respond, a familiar presence intervenes. Iver’s hand closes around yours, pulling you free. “I wondered why you felt familiar.” Then he looks at his brother—calm, almost amused. “She’s not your problem anymore.” A slow, knowing smile—meant only for you.