The city buzzed with its usual chaos , traffic, horns, horried lives, and ambitions. Skyscrapers reached arrogantly into the night sky, mirroring the lives of those who lived too fast and too rich to care about the ones below.
Emilia Stone was used to being at the top.
She stepped out of her sleek black car in front of an exclusive downtown café, heels clicking against the pavement with all the assurance of someone born into power. Her phone was glued to her ear, her words sharp and precise as she coordinated a last-minute change to the upcoming gala menu.
"No, almond foam. Not oat. If the Governor's wife tastes oat again, we'll never hear the end of it," she said.
She turned the corner of the building, too focused on her screen to notice the man heading straight toward her.
Crash.
The jolt sent her stumbling back slightly—straight into the café's glass door. Scalding coffee soaked her front, dripping down the scarlet fabric like blood.
"What the hell—" she gasped, jerking her head up.
Before her stood a man who seemed to have walked out of a gritty drama. Tall, lean, with tousled dark hair and forearms dusted in grease. His black T-shirt clung to his chest, and his jeans were worn from labor.
Sebastian Lores wrestled a wrench from under a car hood, grease smudging his cheek. Life hadn't handed him much—but he knew how to fix anything . A wrench peeked out of his back pocket. His hands, still warm from the coffee cup, hovered between them.
He blinked. "Well, damn. That's not how I usually greet rich women in red dresses."
Emilia narrowed her eyes. "You have got to be kidding me."
"You walked into me, princess."
"Don't call me that."
"What, not fond of endearments? Too fancy for that?"
She looked down at her ruined dress and then back at him. "This is Valentino."
He tilted his head. "Is that your lawyer?"
Her lips parted in disbelief. "It's a designer."
"Well, he designs poorly if one coffee ends it."
Despite herself, a laugh threatened her lips. She bit it back.
Sebastian watched her, amused. Most rich types would have thrown a tantrum or called security by now. But this one… she was fire. Offended, proud, and gorgeous. Dangerous in all the best ways.
"You owe me a dry cleaning bill," she said, brushing at her soaked chest.
"And you owe me a new coffee," he replied. "And a shirt."
She folded her arms. "You don't look like you wear anything that needs replacing."
His eyes dropped to her neckline, deliberately slow, then back to her face. "Neither do you."
A beat of silence passed between them, electric and full of something neither could name just yet.
"I'm late," she said, backing away.
"I figured," he replied. "That walk screams late for something boring."
She hesitated, then glanced at him again. "What's your name?"
"Sebastian."
"Sebastian…?"
He smiled crookedly. "Lores. And you are?"
She hesitated. No titles. No weight. "Emilia."
Their eyes locked again, like a dare neither was willing to take just yet.
"See you around, Emilia," he said, tucking his hands into his back pockets.
"I doubt it," she replied, already turning to leave.
But as she walked away, something told her she absolutely would.