The rain had started unexpectedly, drenching the city in a cold, relentless downpour. Isabella pulled her coat tighter around her body as she hurried down the street, cursing herself for not checking the weather before leaving work.
She had planned to take a cab home, but of course, not a single one was available. With her heels clicking against the pavement, she ducked into a quiet café for shelter.
The warmth inside was immediate, the scent of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. She let out a relieved sigh and shook the droplets from her hair before making her way toward the counter.
"Rough night?" The barista smiled as she wiped down the counter.
"You have no idea." Isabella pulled out her wallet. "Just a cappuccino, please."
As she waited, she took in the cozy atmosphere—dim lights, soft jazz playing in the background, the hum of quiet conversation. The café was nearly empty, save for a few customers scattered across the room.
Her eyes landed on a man sitting in the farthest corner, his posture relaxed yet commanding. Even in the dim lighting, she recognized him immediately.
Ethan Lancaster.
Her stomach clenched.
He was dressed in a crisp black suit, his jacket draped over the chair beside him. One hand rested on the table, fingers idly spinning the glass of whiskey in front of him. The other held a phone, though he didn't appear to be reading whatever was on the screen.
He wasn't distracted.
He was waiting.
And then—
His eyes lifted, locking onto hers.
A sharp inhale caught in her throat.
She knew she should look away. Pretend she hadn't noticed him.
But she didn't.
His gaze was unwavering, dark and unreadable, but there was something else there—something dangerous.
And then, to her horror, he smirked.
A slow, knowing curve of his lips.
As if he had been expecting her all along.
She turned sharply, grabbing her coffee the second it was ready and making a beeline for the door.
But before she could escape, his voice stopped her.
"Leaving so soon?"
She froze.
He was standing now, his presence towering, imposing.
Her pulse pounded.
Slowly, she turned, her grip tightening around the coffee cup. "I don't have time for this, Ethan."
"For what?" He stepped closer, his scent—rich, dark, intoxicating—wrapping around her. "A conversation?"
"You and I don't have conversations," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady.
He tilted his head slightly, studying her. "You make it sound like I'm the villain in your story."
She scoffed, stepping back. "Aren't you?"
Something flickered in his expression—amusement, maybe even satisfaction.
"I was just thinking," he murmured, "how funny it is that, out of all the places in the city, you walked into this one."
"It's called a coincidence."
"There's no such thing."
His words sent a chill down her spine.
This wasn't a chance encounter.
Not to him.
And maybe, deep down, not to her either.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she turned away. "Goodnight, Ethan."
She walked out, stepping back into the rain, determined not to look back.
But even as she disappeared into the night, she could still feel his eyes on her.
Watching.
Waiting.
Wanting.