Alina couldn't shake the thick unease creeping into her chest, a cold fog settling over the landscape of her thoughts. She was supposed to be cross-referencing shipping invoices, a task so mind-numbingly dull it usually consumed her entire consciousness. But today, the numbers on the screen blurred into meaningless squiggles. Sarah's words echoed in her mind, teasing her like a whisper just out of reach. A man dressed in emerald at your apartment.
It didn't make any logical sense. She had lived in the same cramped, paper-thin-walled unit for five years—long enough to know that her life was a closed loop. No one ever showed up at her door unannounced. Her social circle had dwindled to nothing, and deliveries were left in the lobby. The idea of a visitor, much less a mysterious and impeccably dressed one, was preposterous. And certainly not one dressed like royalty.
She sat at her desk, the rhythmic, absentminded clicking of her pen the only sign she was still tethered to the present. She kept replaying the brief, bizarre conversation. Was it just Sarah, with her insatiable appetite for drama, embellishing another story for gossip's sake? It had to be. Sarah probably saw a delivery guy in a green uniform and her overactive imagination did the rest. Or had someone really been there, standing on her worn-out welcome mat, looking for her? The idea was so ridiculous it was almost laughable. No one searched for Alina Gray. No one waited outside her door. She was a background character, a ghost in the machine.
And yet… the thought lingered, a stubborn splinter in her mind. Who was he? Why would he be there? The unease wasn't just about the mystery; it was about the feeling of being seen, of being sought out. For someone who had spent years perfecting the art of invisibility, it was a terrifying thought.
A sharp knock on the particle board of her cubicle wall snapped her out of her thoughts.
Alina jolted upright, her pen clattering onto the desk. Her eyes flew wide, her heart hammering against her ribs with a sudden, panicked beat. She turned—and there he was.
Logan Hayes.
It was as if her fevered imagination had conjured him into existence, but he was far more vivid than any daydream. The man who somehow made the dull, flickering glow of the office lights look flattering. His dark hair was perfectly imperfect, and a crisp, white shirt was rolled up at the forearms, revealing a dusting of dark hair. His usual effortless charm was fully intact, and when he leaned against her desk, one corner of his mouth lifting in a smirk, her brain completely short-circuited. The air crackled. The ambient hum of the office faded into nothing.
She swallowed, scrambling for some semblance of composure, but the words she needed were trapped somewhere between her lungs and her lips. All coherent thought had evaporated.
"H-how are me today?" she blurted out, the sentence a mangled wreck.
Oh. Oh no.
The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to hurl herself out the nearest window. She could feel the blood drain from her face, only to rush back with the force of a tidal wave. How are ME today?
Logan blinked, the smirk faltering for a fraction of a second before it blossomed into a full-blown grin—a dazzling, devastating kind of grin that could power a small city. "Me is fine." His voice was rich with amusement, his lips twitching as he valiantly held back a laugh. "How are you?"
Alina, paralyzed by the sheer magnetism of that smile and the depth of her own mortification, said absolutely nothing. Her mouth opened and closed silently, like a fish gasping for air.
"I was actually coming over to ask if you were alright," Logan continued, his voice softening as he tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes scanning her with genuine curiosity. "You only have one shoe on."
Alina stiffened, her entire body going rigid. One shoe? That was impossible. She wasn't a cartoon character.
Slowly, as if dreading what she would find, she glanced down beneath her desk. Sure enough, her left foot was adorned with its sensible black heel. Her right foot was completely bare, clad only in a thin gray sock. The heat rushed to her face like wildfire, a burning, suffocating wave of pure humiliation.
"Oh my God," she whispered, the words barely audible. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, willing the ground to swallow her whole, to transport her to another dimension where this was not happening.
Logan chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the air. He leaned down slightly, as if seeing the absurdity for himself made it even funnier. "It's bold," he commented, his eyes twinkling. "Definitely a statement. Is this the new minimalist trend?"
She was going to die. Right here, at her desk, from sheer, unadulterated embarrassment. This was it. This was the end of Alina Gray.
"It must've fallen off while I was walking," she stammered, her voice a reedy whisper. She didn't dare look at him. She was staring intently at a stain on her carpet, as if it held all the answers to the universe.
Logan wasn't making this easier for her. He straightened up and reached out, giving her a gentle, friendly pat on the shoulder. The contact was electric, sending a jolt straight through her blouse. It was meant to be comforting, but it only amplified her malfunctioning-robot state. "Only you could rock that style," he teased, his tone light and playful.
Alina was now flushed the color of a ripe tomato, her pulse hammering violently in her ears. She could hardly breathe, much less formulate a response. All she could do was feel the lingering warmth of his hand on her shoulder and the crushing weight of her own awkwardness.
Logan gave her one last amused smile—his teeth practically diamond bright—before turning and walking away, leaving her in a wrecked heap of emotion and humiliation, the scent of his subtle, clean cologne lingering in his wake.
Alina sat frozen in her chair for what felt like an eternity, unable to move or process what had just happened. She touched her shoulder where Logan had patted her, the fabric still seeming to hold the ghost of his touch, as if trying to confirm it had all been real. Her thoughts were a chaotic cyclone—one part screaming about the missing-shoe disaster, another replaying the way Logan had smiled at her, the effortless way he had made her, invisible Alina, feel like the center of his world for just a moment.
It was ridiculous. He was just being nice. And yet, here she was—giddy and mortified all at once, her stomach doing frantic somersaults.
Finally regaining some motor function, she bent down, her face still burning, and reached for the stray heel that had somehow found its way under her desk, nestled against the leg of her chair. As she pulled it back on, her clumsy movement caused her bag to tip over, and the small, black velvet pouch slipped out, landing silently on the worn carpet.
Alina's breath hitched.
The ring.
In the whirlwind of her Logan-induced embarrassment, she had almost forgotten about it.
She stared at the pouch, her fingers lingering over the soft, worn fabric. A chill ran down her spine—not from fear this time, but from something else. Something deeper, like the feeling of puzzle pieces clicking into place.
Something was different today.
Between Sarah's cryptic mention of a stranger at her door, the violent attempt to steal her bag, Logan's completely unexpected interaction, and now this—this strange, persistent feeling gnawing at her—something about the world felt off-kilter, tilted on its axis. These weren't just random, unlucky events. They felt connected, revolving around a center she couldn't yet see.
She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. She picked up the pouch, its weight feeling more significant than ever, and slipped it deep into her bag. She wasn't ready to face whatever truth was lurking behind it all, coiled like a snake.
Not yet.
But soon. The feeling was undeniable now. Soon, she would have no choice.