The city's heart was alive—neon lights flickered like restless stars, laughter spilled from crowded cafés, and rain glossed the streets in silver.
Amara pressed her notebook tightly against her chest as she hurried through the throng, cursing the downpour. Her umbrella had betrayed her three blocks ago, flipping inside out with one arrogant gust of wind. Now, with her hair damp and her shoes sloshing with every step, she only wanted one thing: to escape the storm.
But fate had other plans.
She crashed headfirst into someone—hard enough to send her notebook flying and her dignity scattering with it.
"Watch where you're—" Her words faltered when she looked up.
He was tall, sharp-jawed, with eyes that seemed carved from midnight itself. His suit was too perfect for someone wandering these messy streets, and the way he steadied her—firm, effortless—sent a shiver down her spine.
"I should say the same to you," he said, his voice low, velvety, and maddeningly calm.
She bent quickly to snatch her notebook from the ground, cheeks burning. "Great. Just what I needed. A stranger who thinks he owns the sidewalk."
He smirked. "Maybe I do."
Her jaw dropped at the arrogance. Unbelievable.
But as she turned to storm away, her treacherous heart whispered something she refused to acknowledge—You'll see him again.
And fate? Fate was already smiling.