Central Park, New York City – 6:12 AM
"What's your relationship with Claire Bennett?"
The question came sharp and sudden, slicing through the quiet snowfall like a blade. Aiden Clark stood tense under the streetlamp glow, snowflakes clinging to his lashes. His grip on the neck of the whiskey bottle tightened in reverse, fingers curled like it was a weapon—not that it would help much.
She hadn't moved since throwing that snowball. Still wrapped head-to-toe in black—beanie, coat, boots, mask—she looked more like a shadow than a person. And given the morning he'd had, his first thought wasn't unreasonable.
She's here to finish the job.
Sent by Claire's team. To scare him into silence. To clean up whatever leftover scandal Claire Bennett didn't want traced back to her name.
"Claire Bennett?" the woman repeated, head tilting slightly. "You know Claire too?"
Aiden narrowed his eyes. "Cut the crap. If you're here to make me disappear, just do it. I won't go down quietly."
The woman blinked, then burst out laughing—genuine, surprised, and annoyingly amused.
"Are you drunk or just tragically self-important?" she asked, tossing the snowball aside. "No offense, but you don't exactly scream international threat."
Aiden blinked.
"You… weren't sent?"
"No. I was taking a shortcut through the park. Then I saw some guy sitting frozen on a bench like a rejected snowman. Thought you were dead. Threw a snowball to check."
He looked at her, stunned silent. Then he looked down at himself—soaked, slumped, a bottle of cheap whiskey in hand.
Right. He did kind of resemble a cautionary tale.
"So… you're not an assassin."
"Uh. No." She raised an eyebrow. "Unless snowball homicide's a thing now."
Aiden sighed and dragged a hand over his face. "God, I need sleep."
She chuckled. "Or maybe water."
He ignored her and asked warily, "So how do you know Claire?"
The woman's eyes widened behind her mask. "Know her? She's everywhere. I was at her concert last night. VIP, thanks to a friend in production. She's unreal. Like an angel who sings with attitude."
Of course she was a fan. Everyone was these days.
Aiden's stomach twisted, the ache inside him deepening.
The woman noticed. "Okay, clearly there's history here."
"You could say that."
He sat back down, letting the whiskey rest on the bench beside him. The buzz was fading, but the emotional hangover had only just begun.
"You look like someone who just got dumped mid-proposal," she said lightly.
He didn't answer.
The woman didn't walk away. She crossed her arms, watching him like a curious cat watching a slow-burning fuse.
After a moment, Aiden glanced up and frowned. "Are you seriously still here?"
"Public park," she replied, deadpan. "I pay taxes too."
"Fine."
He stood abruptly and trudged off, snow crunching beneath his boots. But he hadn't gone ten steps before realization hit him like a slap.
He reached for his coat pocket.
Nothing.
No phone. No wallet. No record book.
He turned around.
She was still standing by the bench, holding a familiar bundle of items in her gloved hand.
"Knew you'd come back," she said, holding them up like a trophy. "Try not to lose your whole life next time."
He marched back and snatched the bundle from her hand. "Thanks."
But as he turned to go again, she asked, "So what's your connection to Claire?"
Aiden stiffened.
Her tone was different now. Casual curiosity laced with intent.
"I wasn't snooping," she added, hands raised. "Just trying to figure out whose stuff I was holding. There was a photo. You and her. You looked... close."
He turned to her, suspicion creeping back into his features.
"Relax," she said. "I didn't post anything. Didn't sell anything either. Yet."
He gave her a warning glare.
She smirked. "Don't worry. If I was going to blackmail you, I'd ask for something more interesting than whatever's left in your bank account."
He sighed. "What do you want?"
She tilted her head. "Your story."
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. I want the story. Claire Bennett and the mystery man with whiskey breath and a marriage license in his coat. Sounds like a good plot twist."
He frowned. "You're insane."
She reached down, grabbed a can of beer he'd left behind, and cracked it open. "Maybe. But I'm also listening."
She sat down on the bench like they were two old friends catching up after a funeral.
Aiden stared at her. This woman had barged into his breakdown with zero shame and was now sipping his beer like she'd been invited.
She looked up at him and grinned. "Come on. Don't tell me you're afraid to talk to a stranger in the dark."
He sighed, sat down beside her, and muttered, "Claire Bennett is my sister."
She didn't miss a beat. "Nope. Try again."
He blinked. "What?"
"Claire's an only child. I know her whole fan bio. Born in Brooklyn. Lives in Manhattan. Zero siblings. No cousins. Her parents still married, and no secret adoptions. So unless you're a time-traveling twin, I'm not buying it."
He stared at her. "What are you, a pop star fact-checker?"
"Just observant. Try again."
He ran a hand through his hair. Damn, she was thorough.
"Fine," he said eventually. "We met in college. Fell in love. Thought we'd make it. We didn't."
That caught her attention.
He told her just enough. The library nights. The dreams. The way Claire lit up when she sang. How success pulled them in opposite directions, and how she walked away with fame while he walked away with silence.
He didn't give her the messier pieces. Not yet.
When he finished, he expected her to laugh.
She didn't.
She looked down at the snow and said softly, "That sucks."
"Yeah," he muttered. "It really does."
They sat in silence.
After a while, she asked, "If you loved her, why didn't you fight harder?"
He didn't answer right away.
Finally, he said, "Sometimes, fighting just makes them run faster."
She nodded, understanding in her eyes.
Then her expression changed. Sharper now. Focused.
She looked at him, dead in the eye.
"Then marry me."
Aiden froze. "What?"
"You heard me," she said calmly. "Marry me."
He stared at her, completely thrown. "Are you having a psychotic break?"
"I'm being serious."
"Why?"
She shrugged, sipping from the beer again. "Let's call it mutual benefit. You need a distraction. I need... something. A reason. Maybe just a plot twist."
Aiden laughed—a sharp, disbelieving sound. "You don't even know my name."
"I do," she said, tapping the wallet. "Aiden Clark. Reporter. Metro Today. Bad at holding onto personal belongings."
He narrowed his eyes. "This is insane."
"Probably," she agreed. "But what isn't?"
He opened his mouth to argue—then stopped.
Because part of him didn't care anymore. Not after this morning. Not after losing Claire. Not after watching everything he'd planned fall apart while the snow kept falling like nothing had changed.
He let out a tired sigh.
"I'm not saying yes."
"I didn't expect you to. Not yet." She stood up, brushed snow off her coat, and handed him his phone at last.
"But think about it," she said, turning to go. "If nothing else, it'd make one hell of a story."
She disappeared down the snowy path, leaving behind nothing but her footprints and the faintest scent of citrus and snow.
Aiden stared after her, stunned.
And for the first time in hours... he almost smiled.