Saint Rémiel Academy was the kind of school built by royalty for royalty. Hidden in the Swiss Alps, it overlooked frozen lakes and valleys made of glass. The tuition was enough to bankrupt a small country, and its students wore their last names like crowns. Children of CEOs, heirs to empires, trust-fund babies of oil tycoons and political dynasties—all under one ancient, ivy-stained roof.
The girls' dormitory was no less extravagant than the boys'. Marble fireplaces crackled under antique chandeliers. Velvet furniture, Persian rugs, oil paintings of forgotten noblewomen. But for all its elegance, Sasha Arkhangelsky and her group of misfits had made their room look like a teenage rebellion exploded inside it.
Half-eaten chocolate bars, expensive liquor hidden in perfume bottles, and the thick scent of clove cigarettes laced the air.
Sasha was perched on the window ledge in cargo pants and a black Saint Rémiel hoodie, one leg dangling outside like she might just leap into the snowy night sky. Her cropped platinum hair was tied back with a red ribbon, her lips slick with stolen lip gloss. Her school shirt was untucked, her tie undone. She looked like the kind of girl who'd steal your girlfriend, crash your car, and walk away humming a jazz song.
Around her, four girls lounged with careless elegance: Vika, the Russian diplomat's daughter with a razor-sharp mouth; Lina, a French-Korean heiress who wore her boredom like a silk scarf; and two others from bloodlines too rich to name. All of them slightly drunk, slightly high, and completely untouchable.
"Let's play something," Lina purred from the bed. "I'm bored."
Vika smirked. "Truth or dare, obviously."
They passed around a half-empty bottle of cherry-infused vodka and a pack of clove cigarettes. Someone put on a dark synth track from one of the older girls' secret playlists. The room pulsed with candlelight and smoke.
Ten minutes in, Sasha had already done two dares—one involving a body shot off Lina's stomach, and another where she prank-called a nobleman's daughter. She was half-laughing when Vika turned to her again, eyes glittering.
"Alright, Sasha," Vika said, her voice syrupy and wicked. "Truth or dare."
Sasha leaned back, balancing her bottle on her knee. "Dare," she said with a crooked grin.
Lina giggled, whispering something into Vika's ear.
Vika's smile sharpened. "I dare you to go to the boys' wing and kiss the new guy."
The room stilled for a moment. Sasha blinked. "The what?"
"You know, the new one," Vika said casually. "Tall. Pretty. Mysterious. Supposedly Italian. Never talks to anyone."
"The one who reads like, actual books and not just the required syllabus," Lina chimed in, eyes glittering with mischief. "He's in Dorm 4B."
Sasha arched an eyebrow. "That's the boys' wing."
"Exactly," Vika grinned. "Go. Kiss him. Or are you scared?"
Sasha rolled her eyes, already pushing off the window ledge. "Scared? Of a book nerd? Please."
The girls squealed as she snatched her jacket and slipped out the door, boots silent against the polished stone floors. The hallways of Saint Rémiel were quiet this late, shadows flickering from the antique sconces. Sasha moved like she belonged in the dark—fast, sharp, with a laugh bubbling under her breath.
The boys' dorms smelled like cologne, leather, and unresolved tension. Sasha found the room easily. The door was slightly ajar, music low and pulsing inside.
When she stepped in, she was met with a mix of voices—four boys sat around a table, playing cards and sipping whiskey. Someone raised an eyebrow at her entrance.
"Well, well," one of them smirked. "Did we order a tomboy angel?"
"I'm here for the new guy," Sasha said, scanning the room. "Where is he?"
A boy jerked his thumb toward the far corner. "There."
And that's when she saw him.
Sebastian De Sanctis was on the bottom bunk, back propped against the wall, book open in one hand. He wore the school's white dress shirt—crisp, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His long legs were stretched out like he owned the floor beneath him, and his hair was slightly damp, curling at the ends like he'd just showered. There was a candle on the nightstand, flickering softly, casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones and the long lashes that brushed his cheek.
He looked up. Slowly. Not startled. Not curious. Just... aware.
And when their eyes met, Sasha felt something hot and low shift in her stomach. Something she didn't like.
"Hey," she said, clearing her throat. "Mind if I steal a kiss?"
Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't you at least buy me a drink first?"
The boys laughed. Sasha smirked, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears. She stepped closer, heart thudding. She didn't even know this guy's name. Didn't know why he looked at her like he already knew everything she was about.
She reached for him—one hand on the edge of the bed to steady herself.
He didn't move. He just tilted his head, lips slightly parted like an invitation.
She kissed him.
It was supposed to be a dare. Something fast. Something stupid.
But his mouth was warm. Soft. Sure.
And the moment their lips touched, Sasha felt her body go still.
He kissed her back with a quiet confidence—no force, no fumbling. Just heat and stillness. His fingers brushed her wrist like he was memorizing the feel of her pulse.
When she pulled away, breath caught in her throat, he just smiled lazily.
"That was your first kiss," he murmured. "Wasn't it?"
Sasha glared. "Don't flatter yourself."
He only smiled wider, voice like velvet. "You taste like trouble."
She turned sharply and walked out without another word.
She didn't even know the boy's name.
The skyline bowed beneath her heels.
From the floor-to-ceiling windows of the topmost suite in Tokyo's tallest tower, Sasha Arkhangelsky watched the city breathe—neon arteries glowing under the weight of dusk, glass high-rises glittering like fangs. The city had changed. She had not.
At thirty, Sasha was the youngest CEO in AURELIA's history—a tech and luxury automotive empire known as much for its ruthless innovation as its whispered connection to the Arkhangelsky name. The kind of company whose products weren't just bought—they were worshipped. Phones, smart devices, AI cars, bio-tech enhancements… AURELIA didn't follow trends. It dictated them.
And at its head: a woman too sharp for diamonds, too silent for scandal.
Sasha had inherited more than a company. She inherited legacy. Obsession. A sense of duty so heavy it felt engraved into her very bones. She wore tailored suits like armor, stilettos like weapons, and a mask of cold efficiency that not even her closest staff dared question.
But behind the locked door of her penthouse office—between 2:00 and 2:15AM, when the city finally slept—Sasha Arkhangelsky confronted the only thing in her world she couldn't solve with money, power, or intellect.
Desire.
Or rather... the absence of it.
Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder. The name was clinical. Clean. Too sterile for something that felt like a curse.
Sasha had first noticed it when she was twenty-one. At first, she blamed exhaustion. She was newly appointed VP of product development. Late nights. Power deals. A sharp-edged breakup with a diplomat's son who said, "You're beautiful but... it's like kissing a ghost."
That word stayed with her. Ghost.
As the years passed, she tried to make herself feel. Physically, she was flawless—her personal trainers, aestheticians, stylists, doctors... they kept her sculpted like marble. But her body? It refused to burn.
No fantasies. No cravings. No arousal. Not from men. Not from women. Not from touch, sight, or sound.
She tried everything.
Therapy. Tantra. Acupuncture. Even hormone injections.
Then came the lovers—men with strong hands and expensive cologne, women with velvet skin and candlelit whispers. They tried. She tried.
Nothing.
Then came the toys. Chrome and silicone, imported from private labs in Berlin and Seoul. They buzzed, pulsed, whispered against her skin. She lay in her vast bed, satin tangled at her hips, silk pillows stained with frustration. She tried to force the moan, fake the flood of dopamine.
Still—nothing.
She couldn't cum. Couldn't even get wet.
Not even a flicker of heat.
And worst of all? Her body worked fine. She was healthy. Fertile. Perfect hormone levels. There was just… no spark.
Her grandfather—Sergei Arkhangelsky, now a white-haired phantom in a wheelchair—kept sending polite letters asking when she would "settle down" and "provide heirs." Her father, before his death, had joked, "You're too strong for any man. You'll have to build one from spare parts."
Her younger sister, Tatiana, was the golden one. A world-renowned actress and singer. Paparazzi darling. Married to Mathias Laroche, the beloved French-Canadian athlete-turned-actor. Their wedding had been on the cover of Vogue Japan.
Tatiana glowed.
Sasha was titanium.
And no one—not even her sister—knew the truth.
Every date was staged. Every relationship strategic. Every smile in public another exquisite lie. She made appearances at exclusive galas, flirted with princes, billionaires, and heiresses. The tabloids called her "untouchable," "mysterious," "coldly magnetic."
They didn't know she lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, silently begging for her body to want something—anything.
What no one talked about—what no doctor prepared her for—was the shame.
HSDD wasn't just about sex. It was about connection. About hunger. Sasha had built a world empire and yet couldn't find one person who made her feel anything beyond admiration, obligation, or irritation.
She didn't want to just fuck. She wanted to burn.
To ache. To crave. To tremble beneath someone's touch.
She wanted her body to betray her. She wanted to be overwhelmed. To lose control.
Instead, she was ice.
And it hurt.
In secret, she kept a journal—a digital one, encrypted with unbreakable code, where she wrote things like:
"I think something is broken in me.
I think I've been forged too strong, too cold.
I want someone to ruin me.
I want to be ruined."
But no one ever came close.
It was supposed to be a second chance.
The sheets were warm. The air tasted like champagne and perfume. The soft lighting from the chandelier cast molten gold over Sasha Arkhangelsky's bare back as she lay beside Layla Vasquez, tangled in half-kissed silk and the familiar scent of almond lotion. Everything about the evening was perfect—on paper.
The hotel suite was exquisite, of course. Layla always picked places that whispered "romantic," not "transactional." The room was painted in deep amethyst and bone-white. A wall of windows showed the Tokyo skyline, gleaming like a constellation caught between glass and night.
Sasha's hair was a mess of honey-dark strands across her shoulder, her skin still flushed from the effort she had made.
And she had made an effort.
God, she always did.
They'd started slow—tentative kisses, soft laughter, wine-soaked reminiscing about their reckless teenage years. Layla had once been her safe place. A childhood friend turned high school flame. They had broken each other's hearts too many times to count, but there was always something tender in the aftermath.
Tonight, Sasha let herself try again. Really try.
She kissed Layla the way she remembered—slow, firm, with just enough dominance to make her melt. She touched her carefully, with practiced precision. Sasha was always better at giving than receiving. She knew what made a body tremble. She knew what made a woman beg.
And Layla had begged.
Sasha made her come—once with her mouth, twice with her fingers, and a third time with whispered praise and a slow, grinding rhythm that left Layla gasping her name.
But when Layla's warm lips pressed against Sasha's thigh, when her fingers drifted lower, her breath teasing, her eyes watching for signs of pleasure...
There was nothing.
"Oh my, my…" Sasha let out, voice low and smoky.
Layla raised her head, hopeful. Her dark curls framed her flushed face, eyes shining with mischief. "Are you feeling something now?"
Sasha stared at the ceiling.
A pause. A breath.
Then:
"Nope."
She sat up, gently guiding Layla off of her. "You should stop wasting your time."
Layla pouted. "Awwn, Sasha…"
She wrapped her arms around her, nuzzling into her neck, trying to offer comfort where neither of them knew how to fix it. Sasha chuckled softly, a tired, bitter sound, and leaned into the embrace for a second before pulling away.
She stood and walked to the window—naked, unbothered, sipping from a crystal glass of dry red wine. Her silhouette was backlit by a sea of lights. The city sprawled beneath her, alive and oblivious.
"Another failed experiment." Her voice was calm. Empty. "I'm really starting to think I'm broken."
Layla propped herself up on one elbow, watching her. "You're not broken. You're just… complicated."
"I've had tests, Layla. Bloodwork, therapy, energy readings, even fucking spiritual sex coaching. Tantric massage. Hormonal balancing. Meditation. Toys. Women. Men. More toys. Nothing works. Nothing touches me."
"You touch everyone else though," Layla whispered. "They leave your bed glowing like saints."
"Yeah," Sasha said with a humorless smile. "I give fire. But I'm ice inside."
Layla wrapped a sheet around herself and came up behind her, arms circling her waist. Her chin rested lightly on Sasha's shoulder. Her skin was warm against Sasha's cool, wine-slicked exterior.
"Just one more try," Layla murmured. "Let me send you someone. My family Intimacy Coach."
Sasha turned slightly, eyebrows arching. "Layla, I've been through every 'miracle' doctor in Tokyo and Seoul. What's this one going to do? Pull a demon out of my uterus?"
"Don't be dramatic," Layla whispered, kissing her shoulder. "He's different. He helped a lot of people. I'm not saying he's magical or anything. But he's good. He listens. He understands stuff that others don't."
Sasha stared at her own reflection in the glass.
Powerful. Composed. Beautiful. Dead inside.
"…You really believe that?" she asked quietly.
Layla nodded. "Just trust me this once. Let me send him to your office tomorrow."
Sasha didn't answer immediately. She took another long sip of her wine. Let the silence hang, let it sting. She didn't believe in hope. Not anymore.
But she didn't say no.
"Fine," she murmured at last. "One last appointment. Then I give up."
Layla smiled, relieved. She kissed Sasha's temple softly and whispered, "You'll see. Maybe this one will finally break through."
What neither of them knew—what not even Sasha could have predicted—was that the doctor Layla would send wasn't a stranger.
Not exactly.
He was a man Sasha had kissed once on a dare.
A man who had been reading a book when the world changed.
Sebastian De Sanctis.
The enigma she never remembered.
But he remembered everything.