Morning light crept into Kierra's apartment, thin and gray through the blinds. She woke with the weight of fatigue pressing her down, though her body had long learned to push past it. A cheap alarm clock blinked six-thirty. By seven, she was on her feet, moving through the small routines that kept her life stitched together—instant coffee, a slice of bread, a quick shower, and the careful folding of her catering uniform.
The apartment was small, a shoebox stacked in an aging building with paper-thin walls. The floor creaked under every step, and the hum of a neighbor's television bled through plaster like a persistent reminder that privacy was never absolute. Still, it was hers, even if rent took more than half her paycheck each month.
Kierra dragged a brush through her hair, taming the waves as best she could, and leaned over the bathroom sink. The mirror's edges were spotted with rust, but it reflected the truth clearly enough. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, a sleepless night etched into her skin.
And beneath that, the real problem: she couldn't get him out of her head.
Logan Hayes. His eyes, his voice, the impossible way he'd spoken her name as though it mattered.
She gripped the edge of the sink, breathing deeply. He's nothing to you. You're nothing to him. Don't make it more than it was.
But her heart had always been a poor listener. Even now, it betrayed her with an uneven beat, stuttering at the memory of his gaze.
On the other side of the city, Logan stood in his office, thirty floors above the restless traffic below. The skyline spread out like a kingdom, one he'd built with ruthless precision, deal by deal, risk by risk. Usually, mornings grounded him, sharpened his focus. Today, the city seemed blurred, its edges dulled by distraction.
His assistant laid a stack of contracts on his desk, waiting for his signature. Logan nodded absently, but his pen hovered, unmoving. His mind replayed the sound of her voice in the corridor, the tremor in her hands, the defiance in her eyes when she told him he was married.
The word echoed in his skull like a hammer. Married. That should have been enough to put distance between them. But it wasn't.
"Kierra Jade," he murmured, the name foreign and familiar all at once, rolling off his tongue with unsettling ease.
"Sir?" his assistant asked, pausing near the door.
"Nothing," Logan said quickly, signing the top page with a firm stroke. His mask slid back into place, practiced and polished. But behind it, fault lines were forming, threatening to widen with every thought of her.
He dismissed the assistant with a nod, but when the door closed, he remained at his desk, staring out at the skyline. There were empires he had crushed with less effort than it took to quiet his own mind. And yet, here he was, unable to control the pull of a woman who poured coffee for a living.
By afternoon, Kierra was balancing trays in another corner of the city—this time a corporate luncheon, smaller but no less demanding. She moved between tables, smiling when expected, listening with half an ear as executives laughed too loudly and clinked glasses over hollow victories.
She kept her head down, focused on the work, but she felt raw beneath her uniform. Every voice in the room made her flinch; every tall, suited man reminded her of him. It was irrational, unfair, but the world seemed to have sharpened its edges overnight, cutting into her with every reminder.
Her supervisor praised her efficiency, a client complimented her smile, and yet Kierra felt none of it. She was detached, floating just above the surface of her own body, the weight of last night dragging her down.
When the event wrapped, she ducked out early, claiming exhaustion. The truth was, she couldn't breathe in that space any longer. She needed air, distance, anything to quiet the storm inside her.
At precisely six, Veronica Hayes entered Logan's office, the click of her heels sharp against the polished marble. She carried elegance like armor, her emerald dress a deliberate choice to remind him of the night before. Her hair was perfect, her lipstick unflawed, her smile a calculated weapon.
"You've been distracted," she said, not bothering with pleasantries.
Logan leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "Business is never straightforward. You know that."
"Business doesn't put that look in your eyes." She crossed the office slowly, resting her manicured hand on the edge of his desk. Her perfume lingered in the air, familiar and suffocating. "Should I be worried, Logan?"
He met her gaze evenly, his face unreadable. "No."
But even as the lie left his mouth, he felt the faintest flicker of guilt. Veronica wasn't a woman easily fooled, and she had a knack for sensing cracks before they split wide open.
She studied him for another long moment, her expression unreadable, then finally smiled. "Good. I'd hate to think anything could distract you from what really matters."
When she left, Logan exhaled slowly, the silence of the office pressing in. He told himself she was right—that nothing could distract him. But the lie tasted bitter.
That night, Kierra stopped by the small convenience store near her apartment. She picked up milk, bread, and a box of tea, counting coins in her palm before sliding them onto the counter. The clerk, an older man with weary eyes, gave her a sympathetic nod as he bagged the items.
She clutched the plastic bag tightly as she walked home, the city buzzing around her—horns blaring, neon signs flashing, couples laughing on sidewalks. It all felt distant, as though she were moving through a film projected in the wrong language.
Her building came into view, its paint peeling, its stairwell dimly lit. She adjusted her bag, eager to disappear inside, but her steps slowed when she noticed the sleek black car parked at the curb. Its tinted windows reflected the streetlights, silent and watchful.
Her pulse quickened. That kind of car didn't belong here. Not on this block.
And then the rear door opened.
Logan Hayes stepped out, tailored and composed, his presence swallowing the chaos of the street. He didn't belong in this neighborhood, not among peeling paint and cracked sidewalks. And yet, here he was.
"Kierra," he said, as though her name alone was reason enough.
Her heart thundered in her ears. "What are you doing here?"
"I wanted to see you." His tone was calm, deliberate, but his eyes carried something heavier. "Last night wasn't enough."
She gripped her grocery bag so tightly the plastic dug into her palms. "You can't just show up here. People will see."
"Let them," he said, stepping closer. His cologne cut through the stale city air, grounding and unsteadying all at once. "I don't care."
"I do," she snapped, though her voice wavered. "You shouldn't be here, Logan. You have a wife. A life. I'm not—" Her words faltered, breaking under the weight of the truth she couldn't finish. I'm not supposed to matter.
Logan's gaze softened in a way that unraveled her more than his intensity ever could. "You matter more than you think."
The world stilled. Cars passed, lights flickered, but for a heartbeat, it was just them, standing on a cracked sidewalk, caught in the pull of something neither dared name.
Kierra's throat tightened. "This is wrong."
"Maybe," he admitted. "But it feels inevitable."
Her breath caught. For a moment, she wanted to believe him, to lean into the storm instead of fighting it. But survival was stronger than desire. She stepped back, clutching her bag like a lifeline.
"You should go," she whispered.
Logan studied her, his jaw set, his silence heavy. Then he inclined his head, stepping toward the car once more. Before he slipped inside, he looked back. "This isn't over."
The door closed. The car pulled away, its taillights vanishing into the city's glow.
Kierra stood rooted on the sidewalk, groceries cutting into her hands, her chest aching with something she couldn't name.
She told herself she wouldn't see him again. That it was safer this way.
But deep down, she knew the fault lines had already formed. And sooner or later, something would break.