New York City – JFK International Airport
Aiden Clark stepped out of Terminal 4 into the brisk New York winter, his breath visible in the frosty air. Snow had begun to fall, slow and quiet, coating the world in a hush that echoed the storm brewing inside him.
He paused, staring up at the sky as flurries gathered on his dark coat. His expression was blank, like a man walking through a memory he wasn't ready to revisit.
"Are you okay?"
The voice was muffled by wool and fabric, but he knew it instantly.
She was a few paces ahead, wrapped in layers—oversized sunglasses, a black mask, a thick scarf that hid almost everything. But not enough to fool him. Aiden would have recognized Claire Bennett in a hurricane.
"I'm fine," he said automatically, voice flat. He took a few strides to match her pace, though he wasn't sure if he was chasing her... or walking away from what they used to be.
Once, Claire's voice was the soundtrack to his life. Now it sounded like someone else's echo.
They met in college, built their relationship on caffeine and ambition—late-night study sessions, takeout dinners, dreams scribbled on napkins. They didn't burn bright. They burned steady.
And then they cracked.
Their first year after graduation was a quiet rhythm of takeout and comfort. Claire once loved that peace. Until she didn't.
Restlessness found her. Maybe it had always been there, hiding under her calm smile. One day, she dropped the bomb—she had auditioned for America's Next vocal Star behind his back. Passed the early rounds. Was flying out for nationals.
He hadn't taken it well.
"These shows don't care about talent," he'd told her. "They sell drama, not music."
But Claire had looked at him like he didn't understand a thing. Because to her, music wasn't just a career. It was the lifeline pulling her back to herself.
He couldn't stop her.
Just before boarding, she'd turned to him with tears in her eyes and whispered, "When it's over... let's get married."
And now, it was over.
She'd come back with the runner-up title, a record deal, and more headlines than he could count. Her debut single went viral. Suddenly, Claire Bennett wasn't a name—she was a brand.
He met her at the airport with flowers and hope.
She gave him a breakup.
It wasn't the words that shattered him—it was the softness in her voice, like she still cared… but not enough.
"The industry prefers unattached stars," she'd said. "Relationships complicate the image."
Now, here they were again, standing in the snow like strangers sharing a ghost story.
"I can drive you home, if you want," Claire offered. Her voice was gentle, uncertain. A peace offering made of guilt.
"No need," Aiden replied. "I'll be fine."
The lie slid out of him like breath on glass.
She hesitated, then asked, "What will you do now?"
Aiden let out a half-laugh, more bitter than amused. "Get married, probably. Brought the family registry and everything. Be a waste not to use it."
Claire's hands clenched at her sides. "Aiden…"
She pulled out a black envelope. "I'm performing tonight. Sofia Rae's concert. I'm a guest vocalist. It's front row."
He didn't even glance at it.
To him, "Let's still be friends" translated to "I want to keep you close enough to ease my conscience."
Claire slid the ticket into his coat pocket anyway. Her gloved fingers brushed his chest—just long enough to hurt.
Before anything more could be said, a sleek black Mercedes rolled to a stop at the curb.
A woman stepped out, tall, sharp, and lethal in heels. Designer sunglasses masked her eyes. Her entire aura screamed control.
"Claire. In the car," she said, not sparing Aiden a glance.
Claire moved automatically.
Only then did the woman look his way.
"Gloria Lang," he said under his breath. Claire's agent. Ruthless. Respected. Feared.
She studied him like a stain on glass.
"Claire is poised to become the next household name in music," she said coolly. "She's moving forward. You should do the same."
Aiden's jaw flexed. "Why tell me this?"
Gloria smirked. "To keep things... clean. Emotional drama doesn't sell records. Clean breakups do."
Aiden let out a cold laugh. "You think I'm chasing her?"
Gloria didn't answer. She didn't need to.
He could feel the judgment rolling off her in waves.
"If you really love her, let her go," she said, voice dripping with faux wisdom.
Aiden's face hardened. "I've heard that one before. Sounds poetic until it makes you puke."
Gloria's smug expression cracked for just a second.
"I'm protecting her," she said firmly. "One bad headline, and the entire machine stalls. If you really care about her, you'll stay out of the spotlight. Don't be the guy who drags her down."
Aiden didn't respond.
"Let's be real," she continued. "She's ascending. You're… static. That doesn't work. Not in this world."
He stared at her.
"So because I'm not rich, I'm disposable?"
Gloria's smile turned cruel. "Marriage isn't about love anymore. It's about strategy. You were a good chapter. But she's writing a new book."
Each word dug deeper.
"You should thank her," she added. "She gave you the best years of her life. Not many men can say that."
She turned, heels clicking on the pavement. "Don't show up again. Claire won't come back. Not for you."
She disappeared into the car. The door shut with finality.
Aiden stood in the snow, frozen, empty.
When the Mercedes vanished into traffic, he let out a breath and touched his cheek.
His tooth throbbed.
Later That Night — Metro Today Newsroom
The office was silent, except for the occasional hum of a vending machine.
Aiden sat alone, laptop glowing in front of him, his half-drunk coffee cold.
He worked for Metro Today, a local New York broadcast. His segment, "City Pulse," explored the lives of everyday people—heartwarming, inspiring, real.
But tonight, his own life felt hollow.
He tried to work. Started typing. Deleted. Tried again. Deleted.
The newsroom clock ticked to 8:30 p.m. Aiden was the closer on duty, in case something went wrong on-air. No one else was around.
And maybe that was for the best.
He needed silence to think.
About Claire. About everything.
Eventually, his fingers began to move with purpose.
He dove into work—not to escape, but to survive.
By dawn, he had written two drafts of the winter wellness segment. Solid copy. Clean. Professional.
He saved the file, grabbed his coat, and left the office.
The snow had only thickened. The city was a blur of white.
He grabbed a sandwich and milk from a 24/7 corner store, but the first bite sent a jolt of pain through his jaw.
That damn wisdom tooth again.
No dentists open this early.
So he improvised.
A bottle of cheap whiskey and a six-pack of beer. Old-school medicine.
He took a swig in the store. The clerk stared. He didn't care.
But he didn't want to drink outside his office either.
So he walked.
Ended up at a park bench near the river.
He sat, drinking quietly, letting the cold bite at his skin. Letting the whiskey bite harder.
Work never broke his heart.
People did.
"Maybe villains had it right," he muttered. "No feelings. No baggage. Just chaos."
And then—
SMACK.
A snowball hit him square in the face.
He choked. Spat. Jumped up.
"What the hell?!"
Across the snow-covered park stood a figure dressed entirely in black. Hat. Mask. Scarf. Coat. Even her boots. She was camouflaged like a stylish ninja.
"You're not dead?" the woman called.
Aiden blinked. "Excuse me?!"
The figure didn't move. Her eyes—sharp and curious—were the only visible part of her face.
He wiped the snow off and squinted at her.
Alone. Midnight. Silent park. All black.
She's an assassin.
Or worse—a street performer with great aim and terrible timing.
Either way, this night just got weirder.