Paris mornings usually woke Alina with soft sunlight and the rustling sound of trees beyond her little window.
But today, her alarm was… chaos.
Loud thuds.
A suitcase scraping against the old staircase.
Muffled curses in a deep voice that didn't belong to any of her neighbors.
She peeked from behind the curtains.
A man stood at the gate—dark sunglasses, sharp coat, and the air of someone who didn't belong on this narrow, bookish street.
He looked like trouble dressed in velvet.
Alina narrowed her eyes.
Trouble was not welcome here.
She brushed aside her thoughts and returned to her reading nook, hoping the noise would disappear as quickly as it came.
But Paris had other plans.
**
By afternoon, the hallway smelled like new furniture, strong cologne, and ego.
She could hear the buzz of movers, the clinking of glass, and—oddly—someone arguing over where to place a $3000 lamp.
She shook her head.
Rich people always acted like the world was made of mirrors—just there to reflect them.
Then came the knock.
Not a polite, neighborly tap.
But three short, sharp knocks. Confident. Demanding. Like someone who didn't believe in asking.
Alina opened the door halfway.
He stood there—that man.
Tall, sleek, composed.
His eyes were the color of a stormy sky, unreadable and cold.
"Your parcel," he said, holding up a brown box.
"It was left at my door. I don't read romance, so I figured it must be yours."
Alina raised an eyebrow.
"And I don't usually talk to strangers holding my mail," she replied coolly.
He smirked. "So you're the sarcastic type. Noted."
She took the box and shut the door without saying thank you.
Behind the door, she exhaled.
Great. A neighbor who looked like a Greek god and spoke like a devil.
Just what she needed.
**
The next few days were… interesting.
Every morning, Alina could hear Evander's deep voice on business calls.
Polished. Assertive. The kind of voice that got what it wanted.
She started wearing headphones.
But the worst part?
He invaded her safe spaces.
At the library where she worked part-time, he showed up one rainy afternoon, shaking off droplets from his coat like he owned the building.
She was at the front desk, buried in returned books, when she looked up and froze.
"You?"
"You again," he replied with that same smug smile.
He placed a stack of travel books on the counter.
"I'm exploring Europe. Figured I'd start with Paris. Any recommendations?"
She blinked. "Try asking Google."
He leaned in slightly. "I prefer asking people who live inside books."
Alina frowned. That almost sounded like a compliment.
She hated how he did that—tossing charm like confetti, making people dance around it.
"Read The Paris Hours," she said, sliding the book forward.
"Beautiful. Sad. A little broken. Like you seem to be."
He laughed, genuinely this time.
And that laugh—it annoyed her.
Because it was warm and real,
and she didn't want to find anything warm or real about him.
**
That night, their hallway light flickered.
They both reached for the switch at the same time.
His fingers brushed hers.
Alina jerked her hand back.
"You could knock next time," she snapped.
"I live here. I don't need permission to exist."
His tone was cool, but his eyes were quietly amused.
She stepped aside.
"You know," he said, glancing down at her book, "you read too much. That's dangerous."
"Better than pretending money solves loneliness," she replied, without missing a beat.
He didn't reply.
But for a second—just one second—his eyes softened.
Then he walked away.
**
That night, Alina couldn't sleep.
She kept thinking about that moment—his silence, his stillness.
Like something she said had actually touched him.
She didn't want that.
She didn't want him to be more than just a rich, annoying neighbor.
Because she had built walls. Strong ones.
And people like Evander Ross?
They were earthquakes.
**
Three days later, there was a knock again.
This time softer. Less war-like.
She opened the door cautiously.
"I made too much coffee," he said, holding out a cup.
"I figured… you wouldn't poison me if I offered some."
Alina hesitated.
Was this peace?
Or was it just a new game?
She took the cup, cautiously.
Sniffed.
Sipped.
It was perfect.
She hated that it was perfect.
"So," he said, leaning against the doorway, "tell me something, Miss Hart."
"Why are you always so… sharp?"
She looked up.
"Because people like you only understand sharp.
Soft things get broken in your world."
Evander looked at her for a long moment.
And then he did something unexpected.
He stepped back.
"I'll take that as a fair warning," he said.
And left.
No smirk.
No comeback.
Just quiet.
**
That night, Alina wrote in her journal:
> He's infuriating.
But he listens.
And maybe… he's not entirely who he pretends to be.
She didn't want to admit it,
but something was changing.
And it scared her more than she wanted to say.