It’s Stavros.
Atlas James Stavros.
He uses “James”—his middle name, his American mother’s maiden name—when he’s in the States.
He hides the rest. Like it’s some big secret—only it’s not.
Most people are just too lazy to dig.
Luckily, I’m not most people.
So yes, the part where his father was, well, let’s just say “famous” isn’t the word, is not something he advertises in the States.
Recognize the last name yet?
Yeah, you do.
Stavros.
As in, the former ruling family, who sit on gilded thrones and run entire Mediterranean regions—mainly Greece— with smiles sharp enough to cut steel.
And that makes him—get this—fucking royalty.
A Greek prince.
Well, an ex-prince since royalty was abolished in Greece in 1974.
But that’s just a technicality.
And honestly? No one would know unless he told them.
But once I found out, it was so obvious. I mean how could I think of him as anything but?
Not with the way he carries himself.
Tall.
Sculpted.
Tailored within an inch of his sinful life.
Expensive in the kind of effortless way that says I don’t check price tags, I buy the brand outright.
His eyes—God help me—are caramel laced with heat.
The kind of heat that warns you not to touch but makes you want to, anyway.
His mouth could start wars.
His shoulders might end them.
And his voice?
His voice rolls through me like honey poured over smoke—sweet, thick, dangerous.
Not the foreign accent I expect, but he’s well-spoken, charming, and sexy as fuck.
He’s here to negotiate an international shipping agreement for his product.
