Joshua, standing there in six feet two inches of crisp, model-perfect glory, tilted his head. His razor-sharp jawline caught the pendant light like a beacon for terrible decisions.
"Not personally," he said, his baritone smooth, effortless, and carrying a thread of dry amusement. "But I saw you two hours ago in the lobby at Vance Design Group. Hard to miss your little… security skirmish. You're Ariana, right? Arisa's niece."
Right. My frantic, improvised cover story from reception was already coming back to bite my ivory blazer. I'd handed her a fictional alter ego, and now the ghost of my own creation was standing between me and a clean getaway.
I forced a tight, polished smile, adjusting the strap of my leather tote. "I guess you had a front-row seat to that."
"It's just… unprecedented," he continued, taking a slow step closer and crossing his arms over his black turtleneck. "Seeing Arisa Vance take an unscheduled day off. Usually, she's chained to the showroom floor by seven-thirty."
His words hit like a laser-guided missile directly into my executive ego. Arisa—the real me—never took a day off. Not when I was drowning in quarterly audits, not when I had forty-degree fevers, and certainly not when my personal life was crumbling into ashes.
It was a blaring, red-alert sign to pull back. If Joshua stayed this close, my cover wouldn't just leak—it would implode. I couldn't have my company's top commercial model figuring out why his former boss was suddenly gallivanting around the fashion district disguised as her own mid-twenties relative.
"Well," I said, taking a deliberate step back toward the door. "If you'll excuse me, I have a remote strategy meeting—"
"Join me?" Joshua interrupted smoothly, flashing a dimpled smile so disarming it should have required a government license.
I froze, my heel catching against the floorboards. "What?"
He leaned casually against the butcher-block counter as though he owned the lease, the espresso machine, and the entire block. Meanwhile, my forty-year-old brain was pulling an emergency override, frantically calculating whether to accept the invitation or stage a fake corporate emergency and bolt.
"Coffee's on me," he repeated, holding up two fingers like a mock scout's honor. "And I promise zero probing questions regarding the sacred niece-aunt confidentiality agreement."
Before my lips could form a polite refusal, my phone vibrated furiously inside my blazer pocket.
[SCAL]: High-Value Blind Date Target Identified. Commencing Proximity Protocol.
My stomach dropped into my designer heels. Joshua? A blind date? The algorithm was hallucinating.
I tapped the screen inside my pocket to dismiss it, but the haptic feedback buzzed twice more, sharp and insistent.
[SCAL]: Target profile JOSHUA HUDGENS integrated into Active Romantic Pipeline.
Unbelievable. The app was taking complete control of my itinerary.
"Everything alright?" Joshua asked, his dark eyes narrowing with genuine curiosity as he noticed my rigid posture.
"Fine! Just aggressive corporate spam," I lied, pulling my hand out of my pocket and waving the device dismissively. "You know how persistent digital marketing can be."
He chuckled, the sound low, warm, and far too pleasant. "Tell me about it. You should block the domain."
If only I could block a supernatural system administrator, I thought bitterly, suppressing a groan. "If only it were that simple."
"What was that?" he asked, taking half a step forward.
"Nothing!" I piped up—a octave too high, sounding precisely like the flustered twenty-four-year-old my body claimed I was. I forced a quick laugh that died instantly in the air.
Joshua raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my awkward defensiveness, but poised enough not to press. "So. About that caffeine rescue? No strings attached. Just two people hiding from the morning rush."
My strategic mind whirled. Joshua had been the golden boy of my brand's autumn campaign—reliable, electric on camera, and infuriatingly charming. But this wasn't Arisa Vance holding a sign-off clipboard. This was Ariana, a fictional ghost.
Yet his smile was entirely magnetic, and against every professional rule I'd drafted over the last fifteen years, I found myself nodding.
"Fine. But strictly coffee," I warned, pointing an authoritative finger at him. "Ten minutes. I have a firm schedule."
His grin widened, lighting up his features. "Ten minutes," he agreed, gesturing toward a sunlit leather booth by the glass front.
"Allow me," Joshua said, gesturing toward the barista with effortless chivalry. "An apology for my vanity exhibit. What's your poison?"
"Oat milk flat white. Extra shot. No sweetener," I said, testing his reaction with my usual adult order.
He raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by the lack of syrup. "A purist. I like it. Grab that corner table before the laptop brigade claims it. I'll bring the caffeine."
As he walked toward the counter, I slid into the leather booth near the window, my pulse drumming against my collarbone. Trapped in a younger body, forced by an intrusive algorithm to play the dating field, and sitting across from a man who used to answer to me—this wasn't just a physical reset. It was an executive trial by fire. I yanked out my phone, glaring at the dark glass like it was an active enemy combatant.
Why are you hijacking my morning? I typed frantically into the encrypted notes app, knowing Mavrik was listening.
[SCAL]: Passive avoidance detected. Historical metrics indicate interaction with JOSHUA HUDGENS yields a 78% probability of emotional recalibration. Enjoy your beverage.
I gritted my teeth, shoving the phone face-down onto the wooden tabletop. Emotional recalibration? This wasn't a romance novel. This was my life—or whatever remained of it now that I was masquerading as my own fictional descendant.
Joshua returned a moment later, sliding a heavy ceramic cup across the table with a smooth flourish. "Americano," he announced. "Single sugar, zero dairy. They're out of oat milk, so I figured you'd share your aunt's ruthless taste in espresso."
I stared at the dark liquid, then up at him. "Lucky guess?"
"Educated guess. I've seen Miss Vance down three of those during twelve-hour campaign shoots without breaking a sweat. Figured the executive palate ran in the lineage."
I took a slow sip, letting the bitter roast ground me. "Creatures of habit. It saves time in the morning."
He settled back into the leather bench, wrapping his hands around his own dark roast. "So, Ariana. What's your angle? Fashion design? Corporate law? Or are you on a covert intelligence mission for Vance Design Group?"
I nearly choked on my sip, coughing quietly into my napkin. "Nothing quite so dramatic. I'm currently… auditing my life options."
Joshua tilted his head, his dark eyes studying me with the intensity of an art critic evaluating a fresh canvas. "You're surprisingly like her, you know. The cadence, the posture, the absolute refusal to smile on command. But there's something else—something softer around the edges."
My pulse spiked against my ribs. Was he picking up on the shift? Was forty years of executive authority bleeding straight through this young skin?
"Family resemblance," I said smoothly, leaning back and resting my elbows on the table. "We share a lot of the same DNA. And the same intolerance for small talk."
He laughed outright at that, a rich, genuine sound that drew quiet glances from two nearby laptop users. Thankfully, he let the topic drop, shifting easily into neutral territory—the absurdities of high-fashion casting calls, the city's worst coffee spots, and the art of surviving Manhattan traffic. For five uninterrupted minutes, the cynical executive inside me actually relaxed, enjoying the sharp, easy rhythm of his banter.
Then, my pocket buzzed again with a violent double-thud.
[SCAL]: Conversational Chemistry Threshold Exceeded. Flirtation Metrics: OPTIMAL.
I caught my breath, almost knocking over my water glass. The system had zero boundaries.
Joshua leaned across the narrow table, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at me. "You really are something, Ariana."
I blinked, pulling my executive composure back around myself like armor. "Something good, I hope?"
"Something rare," he corrected softly, his gaze lingering on mine with undeniable focus. "You don't talk like you're trying to impress anyone. It's refreshing."
The sheer authenticity of the compliment caught me entirely off guard. In my forty-year-old life, men usually approached me with agendas—looking for investment funding, executive favors, or social access. Nobody had called me refreshing in fifteen years.
As we reached the bottom of our cups, Joshua slid out of the booth, checking his watch with a quiet sigh. "Duty calls. Showroom fitting in twenty minutes." He paused, looking down at me with a slow, hopeful grin. "This was the best part of my morning. We should do it again. Proper dinner next time?"
My brain fired off three separate warning alarms, but before I could execute a formal rejection, he held up a hand.
"No pressure. Just put it in your schedule."
He turned and walked toward the glass exit, turning back right before his hand hit the brass handle. "Thanks for the espresso, Ariana. Let me know if you're open for dinner."
I met his gaze through the warm café light, a small, genuine smile slipping past my defenses. "Maybe next time, Mr. Hudgens."
He gave me a crisp, stylish wink and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
The second the door chimed shut, my phone screen flashed with blinding brightness from the table:
[SCAL]: Target JOSHUA HUDGENS moved to Priority Date Queue. First Impression Upgrade: SUCCESSFUL.
"Fantastic," I muttered to the empty cups, glaring at the glowing display. "I'm being managed by a romantic AI overlord."
I grabbed my keys, slid out of the booth, and walked out into the crisp morning air. As I unlocked my Porsche and settled into the driver's seat, the dashboard screen flickered one last time:
[SCAL]: Phase One Complete. Prepare for Next Match Deployment.
I rested my forehead against the cool leather of the steering wheel, my heart beating in an unfamiliar, erratic rhythm. I was forty years old, locked out of my own office, flirting with my agency's top model, and completely at the mercy of a magic app.
What on earth had I just walked into?