The rain didn’t ask permission.

It crashed down on the city like something furious and overdue, pounding rooftops, flooding gutters, turning the streets into slick ribbons of reflected light. Thunder rolled low and heavy, rattling windows and nerves alike.

Mayra shoved the glass door of the rooftop bar open harder than necessary.

Warm air hit her face, thick with citrus cleaner and expensive perfume. Her damp hair clung to her cheeks, her blouse stuck uncomfortably to her back. She paused just inside the door, breath shallow, heart still racing as the storm noise faded behind her.

She hadn’t planned to be here.

That was the problem.

She was supposed to go home. Shower. Sleep. Wake up and pretend her life hadn’t cracked open before sunset.

But home was quiet.

And quiet was dangerous.

Her heels clicked too loudly as she crossed the floor, each step announcing that she didn’t belong among the polished tables and low laughter. The bar glowed in soft amber light, the kind designed to make money look effortless and sadness invisible.

The bartender noticed her immediately.

He slid a napkin toward her without asking questions. “Long night?”

She let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. “That obvious?”

“Only to people who’ve had a few of them.”

She wiped rain from her face and finally looked around. Everyone else looked untouched—dry hair, composed smiles, tailored confidence. She felt like a storm cloud that had wandered into the wrong room.

Still, it was close to her bus stop. Anonymous. Temporary.

She ordered a drink.

Wrapped her fingers around the glass.

And then she saw him.

He stood alone at the far end of the bar, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows where lightning stitched the sky together in violent flashes. Tall. Still. A black suit that didn’t beg for attention but commanded it anyway.

He wasn’t watching anyone.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

And somehow, that made him impossible to ignore.

Something in her chest tightened.

She told herself it was curiosity. Fatigue. The alcohol she hadn’t even tasted yet.

Then he turned.

Their eyes met.

The moment didn’t rush itself. It lingered—too long to be accidental, too steady to be harmless. His gaze was dark and focused, not hungry, not kind, just… attentive. As though he were filing her away in his mind.

It unsettled her more than a smile would have.

He gave a small nod. Not a greeting. An acknowledgment.

An invitation.

She should have looked away.

Instead, she took her glass and walked toward him.

Up close, he smelled faintly of cedar and whiskey. He set his glass down as she slid onto the stool beside him, his movements unhurried, controlled.

“You look like you survived something,” he said.

His voice was calm, low, unassuming—but it carried weight.

“Barely,” she replied.

“Care to elaborate?”

She stared into her drink. “I lost my job tonight.”

“That explains the rain,” he said dryly.

A real laugh escaped her before she could stop it. “You’re not wrong.”

He studied her—not her body, not her face alone, but the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself together like something taped at the seams.

“And you?” she asked. “Why does someone like you drink alone?”

He turned to the window, watching the city blur beneath the rain. “Because I needed to disappear.”

“From what?”

“From expectations.”

She understood that more than she wanted to admit.

“Names?” he asked after a moment.

Her instinct screamed no. Don’t complicate this. Don’t attach yourself to anything else tonight.

But she was already here.

“No names,” she said.

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Good.”

The bartender refilled their glasses without prompting. He raised his.

“To temporary decisions.”

She clinked hers against his. “To not thinking.”

The air between them shifted—subtle but undeniable. Not lust. Not yet. Something quieter. Heavier.

“One night,” he said softly.

She met his gaze. “One night.”

They left before either of them could change their mind.

⸻

The hotel suite was immaculate and impersonal, but none of it mattered. What mattered was the way his hands were warm and steady, the way he kissed her like he wasn’t trying to escape anything at all.

She let herself forget.

⸻

Morning came gently.

Sunlight brushed across silk sheets. Mayra woke with a start, her body still warm, her mind slower than usual.

The other side of the bed was empty.

No note. No number. No name.

Exactly as promised.

She dressed quickly, pushing the night into a corner of her mind where regrets lived. Today mattered. Today was her restart.

She walked into the glass-and-steel lobby of her new company, pulse steadying.

Until it stopped.

Behind a transparent wall, surrounded by executives, stood the man from the bar.

Same posture. Same calm authority.

He turned.

Recognition sparked instantly.

A slow smile curved his mouth—measured, knowing.

The screen behind him lit up with his name.

ADRIAN COLE.

Her one-night escape.

Her biggest mistake.

Her new boss.