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ENEMIES TO LOVERS – AGE GAP (10 YEARS) – FORCED COEXISTENCE – PCD REPRESENTATIVITY – HOT SCENES “She didn’t represent anything he wanted, but she was everything he obsessively desired.” Michael Swartz is the richest banker in the country. A handsome, seductive, intelligent and well-connected man. At 33 years old, he has immeasurable wealth, high prestige and numerous women. Until a twist hits him like a wind hitting a house of cards. Counting on the help of the only woman who seems immune to his charm, Michael will need to adapt to the new reality or, otherwise, succumb to it. "My Arrogant Banker" is an intense adult romance, with explicit hot scenes. Indicative rating: 18 years old. PROLOGUE - "A Small Final Affront" MICHAEL SWARTZ The pungent smell of candles mixed with the cloying perfume of flowers grew more unpleasant by the minute. It was almost unbearable, and I couldn't wait to leave. But it had a good side. In the background, a soft voice filled the room, chanting "Insensatez" to my complete delight. I had handpicked the soundtrack for the wake. He hated Bossa Nova because he considered the style "too popular". That was the fun... That room playing only Tom Jobim, João Gilberto and Toquinho was a small final affront. Oh, why were you so weak? So heartless? Ah, my heart, whoever has never loved Does not deserve to be loved — My condolences. — Thank you — I replied for the hundredth time. Or thousandth? I lost count of how many times the simple dialogue was repeated that gray afternoon, with one variation or another. - My feelings. - Thanks. — Your father was a good man. Worthy. Exemplary. - Thanks. My mother had left many years before, causing everyone to come directly to me to offer condolences. The eldest son of the late banker Abraão Swartz. The luxurious coffin hovered like a tourist attraction in the adjacent hall, with hundreds of crestfallen people passing by it, amid prayers, laments and tears. And me? I didn't feel anything. Absolutely nothing. A huge emptiness ravaged my chest as I tried to search my memory for any memory that would live up to the "good", "worthy" and "exemplary" praise. —Thirty-three years, the age of Christ. What's it like to be the richest and youngest banker in the country? — Gabriel stopped next to me, an almost imperceptible smile on my twin's lips. Like me, Gab didn't care about the family's Judaism. “I haven't stopped to think about it yet,” I replied, smoothing my black suit, expelling any imaginary dust from the expensive fabric. — How not? Damn, Michael... Now that the old man is finally dead, the Swartz Bank is in his hands,” he whispered, nudging me with his elbow. Like me, Gab didn't give a damn about the dead man in the next room. Unlike us, our cousins were tearful on one of the leather sofas, heads down, looking genuinely saddened by my father's death. I wouldn't judge them. The other Swartz did not receive the same "warm" attention that Abraham gave his children. In fact, few people knew about the cruel treatment given to Gab and, in particular, to me, throughout my childhood and adolescence. The firstborn. How I hated the word... "The old man is finally dead." Gabriel's sentence resonated like an echo, pulling me out of that pit of indifference and torpor, spreading waves of heat through my insides. Slow and sneaky like venomous snakes. — Cheer up... — insisted Gab. — Besides the position and the money, there’s one more reason to celebrate, brother