The wind wasn't just making noise—it was throwing a straight-up tantrum. Forty-three floors up, it smashed into Sterling Tower's glass like it actually wanted in, like it had unfinished business. The whole building shuddered—windows rattling, steel bones groaning.
Liam Chen felt it right through his busted work boots when he got off the freight elevator. The service hallway was sketchy—half-lit, stinking of bleach and fresh paint. He just had to dump one more package up in the fancy mailroom—some thick envelope that screamed "lawyer stuff"—and then he could peace out, grab whatever Auntie Bao hadn't sold, and faceplant onto the mattress he shared with his sister. That's life: twenty-three hours upright, three gigs, and a heart wired for everyone except himself.
He hit the end of the corridor—steel door, big fat "ROOFTOP ACCESS—AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" label. The latch sucked, so the door hung open. Through the gap: a bruised, purple sky, sliced up by helicopter beams. He should've bailed left, toward the mailroom. But the wind had other ideas, yanking the envelope right out of his fingers, luring it onto the roof like it was fishing for trouble.
He cursed, low, and followed.
First thing Beijing handed him: vertigo. The city at midnight looked like a circuit board—red tail lights bleeding, neon pulsing, drones flickering like neurons. Second thing: her silhouette.
She was standing on the wrong side of the rail. Not technically on the ledge, but damn close—perched on some skinny strip along the parapet, one hand steadying herself, the other reaching for rain that hadn't even started. Neighboring tower spotlight hit her profile: hair half out of its twist, sharp line of her neck, a flash of earring. The wind had her blouse plastered to her, turning her into a human sail ready to rip loose.
Liam's heart went into overdrive. He crept forward, gravel crunching under his boots.
"Hey!" His voice cracked—too tired, too high up. "Don't move."
She flinched, heel slipping. The stiletto snapped.
Time just… stalled. She toppled, arms flailing. The noise she made—caught between a gasp and a sob—barely made it to his ears before he was moving.
He dove. The envelope shot away, paper scattering everywhere like panicked doves. His boots skidded, but he got her wrist—cold skin, fragile bones. Her weight almost yanked his shoulder out. She slammed into the side of the building so hard his teeth hurt.
"Got you," he grunted, digging his boots in. "I've got you."
She dangled over a forty-story drop, her blouse ripped, eyes huge and washed-out in the city lights. For a second, she felt heavier than gravity—like a billionaire made of falling stocks and marble floors. Then she grabbed his arm, grip way stronger than he expected.
"Pull," she whispered. "Please."
He hauled. Muscles on fire. The wind tried to pry them apart, like it wanted to finish the job. Inch after inch, he dragged her back over the rail. They collapsed in a pile on the gritty rooftop, limbs everywhere, both of them gasping.
Her perfume—rich, green, expensive—mixed with the sharp tang of his own panic. She was shaking hard. He sat up first, pulling her close, his hand moving automatically to check her collarbone for breaks.
"You okay?" His voice was all rough edges. "Anything busted?"
She shook her head, nose mashed against his shirt, and then—oh man—she started crying. Not the dainty, movie-star sniffles, either. We're talking full-on, ugly sobs, the kind that make your shoulders quake and your chest hurt just watching.
"I wasn't—" Hiccup. "I wasn't going to jump."
"Didn't look like a tourist up here," he grumbled, brushing her hair out of her face. The wind had done a number on it. His thumb came back slick with tears.
"I lost my balance. My heel—" She waved a hand, all shaky, then latched onto his arm like he was about to evaporate. "You could have died."
He tried to joke—"Wouldn't be the first dumb thing I did today"—but honestly, it just sort of died in the air. Up close, she looked younger than he'd pegged—late twenties, maybe. But those eyes? They'd seen some stuff. Like, haunted-house levels of not-sleeping.
"Can you stand?"
Together, they managed to get vertical. She leaned on him like her bones had forgotten their job. One shoe was just gone, the other dangling by a thread. Her blouse had ripped at the shoulder, showing off these freckles scattered across her skin—like, who gets freckles that perfect?
"You work here?" she asked, sounding steadier, but she was still clutching him.
He almost snorted. Paint-splattered cargos, jacket on its last legs—yeah, he was the poster child for corporate chic. "Just dropping off a package. You?"
She paused, just a half-second too long. "Intern. Sterling Corp."
Smooth as butter, that lie. Liam was too wiped out to care, honestly. All he saw was a woman who nearly fell off a building and still wouldn't let go of his hand, like he was the last real thing in a city built on smoke and glass.
"I'm Liam."
She actually looked at him, lashes all clumped together. Somewhere below, a siren wailed and then fizzled out. "Eva," she said.
It wasn't the name from that lobby plaque—the one with the billionaire and her six-foot portrait that tourists gawked at. But right now, in this wind and darkness, with his heart trying to pound out of his chest, he bought it.
He stooped and snagged the envelope he'd come to deliver—now stomped flat, address a smeary mess—and tucked it under his arm. "C'mon, Eva. I'll get you out of here."
She nodded, but her eyes kept drifting back to the ledge, like the night had left a bruise only she could feel. She let him lead her to the stairs, leaning extra hard, her perfume getting all tangled up in his jacket.
Neither of them noticed the little red security light blinking above the door, recording the whole show.
Behind them, the wind just howled on, like the sky was waiting for somebody to fess up.