Chapter 1 – Lara
(Part 1)
I needed a distraction.
The kind of distraction that didn't involve endless spreadsheets, my mother's relentless advice, or the quiet pressure that came with being the only daughter in a family whose name carried weight. Shopping wasn't exactly therapy, but it was the closest I had to a quick escape. At least in a boutique, no one expected me to solve anything except whether a dress hugged me in the right places.
The late afternoon sun spilled across the polished windows of the mall, painting long stripes of gold across the glossy tiles. I paused at the entrance, breathing in that faint mix of perfume samples and fresh linen that always lingered in upscale stores. For a second, I let my shoulders drop, almost convincing myself I was just another woman with a credit card and time to burn. Not the daughter of a woman who ran a business empire, not the one who constantly heard "don't embarrass the family" at every turn.
I smoothed down my skirt and adjusted the thin straps of my heels. They looked good—painfully good. The kind of heels that said, don't mess with me, even though my toes were already begging for mercy. I had chosen them on purpose. When the world demanded so much of you, sometimes the smallest victories came from standing taller than you felt.
The boutique I wanted was tucked into a quieter wing of the mall, a jewel box of glass walls and glowing displays. I pushed the door open, and the soft chime of bells announced my arrival.
"Good afternoon, Miss Lara," one of the attendants greeted, instantly recognizing me. My mother had accounts in nearly every shop here. I forced a polite smile. I hated how easily people knew me before I ever had a chance to introduce myself.
The shop smelled of leather and jasmine. Soft jazz hummed through the speakers. Dresses hung in careful rows, each one daring me to imagine a version of myself that wasn't weighed down by expectations. I drifted between racks, trailing my fingers across silk and satin.
Maybe that was why I loved shopping so much—not for the things themselves, but for the possibilities. Each piece was a small rebellion, proof that I could still choose something for myself.
"Would you like me to pull the new collection for you?" the attendant asked.
"Maybe later," I said, distracted. "I'll just browse first."
I pretended to study a row of handbags, but my mind was already wandering. My mother's voice had followed me all day: Remember, the company is not just mine. It's your legacy too. Don't get distracted by meaningless things.
But what if I wanted to be distracted?
I was so caught in my thoughts that I almost didn't notice when the door chimed again. Someone else had entered, though I didn't turn to look right away. Men rarely came in here, unless they were hovering behind a girlfriend or on a desperate hunt for a gift.
Still, there was something in the air—a shift, subtle but sharp. A presence that didn't blend in with the perfumed air and curated smiles.
I glanced sideways.
He wasn't like the other men I'd seen in places like this. No suit, no gold watch, no nervous fumbling with price tags. He was dressed simply—dark jeans, a fitted shirt, shoes that looked practical instead of polished. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who knew where he was going and why.
And in his hand? A list. An actual paper list.
The corner of my mouth twitched. Who even wrote lists anymore?
I returned my focus to the handbags, pretending I hadn't looked. But part of me was curious. He didn't glance at the clothes or the jewelry, just walked straight to a corner section stocked with basic cleaning items—things most shoppers here would never touch.
I frowned. What kind of man came into a high-end boutique for cleaning supplies?
The jazz music swelled softly, filling the silence between us. I kept browsing, but I could feel him nearby, moving with the ease of someone who didn't care who noticed him. Most men looked out of place in boutiques. He looked… unbothered.
The more I tried to ignore him, the more my thoughts tangled.
Maybe he worked here. No, he didn't look like staff. Too self-assured, too focused.
Maybe he was shopping for someone else. But who bought cleaning items in a store like this?
I shook my head and forced myself to focus on a pair of earrings glinting beneath the lights. It wasn't my business. Whoever he was, he'd be gone soon.
Still, a sliver of unease slid down my spine. Not fear, exactly. More like awareness. The kind you get when you realize someone is part of the room now, whether you want them to be or not.
I let out a slow breath and squared my shoulders. Whatever. He was just another man with a list. I had better things to think about—like whether or not I'd let my mother drag me into another board meeting this week.
But as I stepped toward a display of shoes, I had no idea that the quiet stranger with the list would be the reason my entire day—and maybe my entire life—shifted in a way I couldn't have planned for.
---
I'd just slipped my feet out of one pair of heels when the door chimed again. This time, the sound was sharper, followed by a strange noise I didn't usually hear in boutiques—short nails scratching against tile, a quick huff of breath.
I froze.
A dog.
The hair on my arms prickled before I even turned my head. My throat tightened, my pulse stuttered. I hated dogs—not in the casual way people said it, but in the bone-deep, skin-crawling way of someone who had learned to associate them with danger. When I was twelve, a neighbor's German Shepherd had lunged at me, and I'd never forgotten the weight of its shadow, the hot breath, the teeth snapping too close.
I didn't care how "cute" or "friendly" this one was. The sound alone was enough to make my chest lock.
I spun too fast, my heel skidding against the polished floor. The dog wasn't huge, but it was close—too close. Its owner murmured something apologetic, tugging gently on the leash, but my panic had already taken over.
I stumbled back, my ankle twisting slightly. My hand flew out to steady myself, but there was nothing to grab. The room tilted, blurred edges of shelves and lights crashing into my vision.
Except—
Strong arms caught me before I hit the ground.
The world steadied, the jazz music returning like a lifeline. My cheek pressed briefly against a chest that was firm, solid. Not perfume, not cologne—something simpler. Clean soap. A hint of sweat. Real.
"Easy," a voice murmured.
Deep. Steady.
I blinked up, and the man with the list was staring down at me. His brow was furrowed, eyes sharp but calm. He had me balanced effortlessly, one arm supporting my back, the other holding something out of sight.
It took me a second to realize what it was.
My phone.
I must have dropped it in the fall, but he'd caught that too—held it securely in his hand without so much as a crack on the screen.
He hadn't just caught me. He'd caught everything.
Heat shot up my neck. Embarrassment, relief, and something else I didn't want to name.
"I—I'm fine," I stammered, even though I clearly wasn't. My ankle throbbed, and my hands trembled against his arm.
"You almost weren't," he said flatly.
His voice wasn't mocking, just matter-of-fact. He eased me upright, steadying me until I could stand on my own. Then, almost reluctantly, he handed me my phone.
I took it, fingers brushing against his. My chest tightened again, but for a very different reason this time.
"Thank you," I managed.
He gave a short nod, like it was nothing, and stepped back.
The dog's owner was still apologizing, flustered, tugging the animal toward the door. "I'm so sorry, she just got loose for a second—"
I waved it off quickly, even though my heart was still racing. "It's fine. Really."
But it wasn't fine. My palms were sweaty, my throat dry, and the only thing grounding me was the fact that a stranger had been there at the exact second I'd needed him.
The boutique felt smaller now, the air tighter. I glanced at him again, the man with the list. He was watching me, but not in the way most men did. No smug smirk, no obvious interest. Just an assessing gaze, as if he was making sure I wasn't about to collapse again.
"You should sit down," he said.
I bristled, my pride kicking in. "I'm fine."
He didn't argue, but his eyes said he didn't believe me.
I turned away, pretending to browse another display, though my hand was still shaking as I reached for a clutch bag. The silk fabric slipped too easily under my fingertips.
Who was this man?
He didn't look like someone who belonged in my world. Not with those simple clothes, not with that quiet steadiness. Yet he'd moved faster than anyone I'd ever seen. Catching me mid-fall, catching my phone in the same motion—it hadn't just been luck. That was reflex. Trained reflex.
I swallowed hard.
Maybe he was ex-military. Or maybe security. My mother's company hired men like that sometimes, the kind who could disappear in a crowd but see everything.
But what was he doing here, with a list and cleaning supplies?
I risked another glance. He was back at the corner, calmly comparing two items like nothing had happened. My entire body was still buzzing with adrenaline, and he was acting as though he hadn't just saved me from face-planting on marble tiles.
The unfairness of it made me almost laugh.
"Miss Lara, are you all right?" the attendant whispered near me, concern tightening her features.
"I'm fine," I repeated, forcing a smile. My voice sounded steadier than I felt. "Really. Just a misstep."
But my eyes drifted back to him again, against my will.
The man didn't look at me this time. He just checked something off his paper list, slipped the items into a basket, and walked toward the register. His movements were efficient, purposeful, without hesitation.
It should have been forgettable. Ordinary. But I couldn't shake the image of him catching me like it was second nature—like he'd done it a hundred times before.
And for some reason, that unsettled me more than the dog had.
---