The hum of the city was different when Kierra walked through it at night. By day, the streets were clogged with noise and rush-hour impatience; by night, it was all glass and shadows, the skyscrapers glittering like constellations against the inky sky.
She tugged her jacket tighter around her shoulders, balancing a catering box in her hands as she hurried across the wide marble steps of the Astoria Grand.
The invitation hadn't been hers, not really. The café had been hired last minute to supply desserts and coffee for a charity gala—a prestigious midnight affair for the city's elite. Her manager had begged her to deliver the trays personally, trusting her not to screw it up in front of millionaires who tipped more for appearances than generosity.
The paycheck for this one night would cover a week's rent. She wasn't about to say no.
Inside, the ballroom was a different world. Crystal chandeliers rained down golden light, polished marble floors gleamed beneath patent leather shoes, and a live string quartet played softly near the grand staircase. The air smelled of wealth—expensive perfume, polished wood, champagne poured from bottles worth more than her monthly salary.
Kierra adjusted her grip on the catering box, ignoring the curious stares from waitstaff in crisp uniforms. She wasn't dressed like them—her black dress was simple, functional, something she owned already rather than something designed for display. The faint coffee stain on her sleeve reminded her exactly where she belonged in this glittering room: the edges, not the center.
She slipped behind the dessert table, unloading macarons and chocolate tarts onto silver trays. Her hands worked quickly, practiced from countless café shifts, though her eyes kept drifting around the room. Women in gowns shimmered like jewels, men in suits moved like predators in their natural habitat, conversations flowed with the ease of practiced influence.
And then her gaze froze.
Him.
Logan Hayes.
Standing by the staircase, glass of scotch in hand, surrounded by a small circle of men who leaned in when he spoke. His presence commanded the space effortlessly, like gravity pulling everything into orbit. The stain from earlier was gone, replaced by a fresh white shirt beneath his perfectly tailored jacket. His tie was sharp, precise, every inch of him exuding power and polish.
Kierra's breath caught.
She hadn't expected to see him again—not so soon, not here, not like this. The memory of the café lingered too vividly—the heat of his hand around her wrist, the faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. She'd told herself it had been nothing, a moment destined to dissolve as quickly as it came.
But seeing him again… it was like stepping into the same storm twice.
Kierra tore her gaze away, busying herself with aligning the dessert trays. She had no business noticing him, no business letting her pulse quicken at the sight of him. This was his world, not hers. And she wasn't foolish enough to think she had any place in it.
Yet fate—or perhaps something more dangerous—had other plans.
"Kierra, isn't it?"
The voice was low, smooth, undeniably familiar.
Her hands froze on the silver tongs. Slowly, she turned, and there he was. Logan Hayes, close enough now that she could see the faint crease near his eye when he studied her.
Her throat went dry. "Mr. Hayes."
One dark brow lifted, as if amused by her formality. "I didn't expect to see you here."
She forced a small smile, trying to remember professionalism. "I'm working. Catering." She gestured at the trays between them.
His gaze flicked to the desserts, then back to her. "Of course. Though I admit, it feels more like coincidence than chance."
Kierra's stomach tightened. Coincidence. That's all it was. It had to be. "Small city, I guess," she said, reaching for another tray, her tone deliberately light.
But his eyes didn't leave her. There was something unsettling in the intensity of his attention—as though she was the only person in the room worth seeing. Around them, the gala buzzed with laughter and music, but Kierra felt caught in a spotlight she hadn't asked for.
"You handled yourself well the other night," Logan said finally, his lips curving faintly. "Most people would have panicked."
"You mean when I spilled coffee all over you?" she asked, heat rushing to her cheeks.
He tilted his head. "You apologized. You looked me in the eye. That's more than most do."
The way he said it made her pulse trip. Compliment or test, she couldn't tell. Maybe both.
Before she could respond, a woman glided up to Logan's side. Tall, statuesque, draped in emerald silk that hugged her frame like a second skin. Her diamonds caught the chandelier light with every move, and her smile was the kind polished over years of practice.
"Darling," the woman purred, slipping her hand around Logan's arm. "They're waiting for you at the table."
Kierra's stomach dipped. His wife. Of course.
Logan's expression didn't change, but something unreadable flickered in his eyes before he inclined his head to the woman. "In a moment."
The woman followed his gaze, her eyes landing on Kierra. A faint smile curved her lips, the kind that didn't reach her eyes. Assessing. Dismissing.
Kierra forced her own polite smile and dropped her attention back to the desserts, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the silver tray. She didn't want to be caught in whatever this was, didn't want to be seen as a curiosity or worse, a threat.
"Enjoy the evening," Logan said softly, his words directed at Kierra alone. Then he allowed his wife to lead him away, his hand settling at the small of her back in a gesture that looked intimate but felt practiced.
Kierra exhaled slowly, her chest tight.
It should have ended there. He was married, he belonged in a world she had no part of, and she was nothing more than a barista who happened to cross his path twice. She told herself it was the end of it. That whatever strange pull had sparked between them would fade like smoke.
But later, as the night wore on and the gala glittered in full swing, she felt his gaze on her again.
From across the ballroom, beyond clusters of laughing guests and clinking glasses, Logan Hayes was watching her. Not with idle curiosity, not with passing interest—but with something sharper, heavier.
And when their eyes locked, it felt like a promise. Or a warning