The morning air in Brooklyn had the sharp bite of early winter. Alison wrapped her thin jacket tighter across her chest, willing the chill away as she hurried along cracked sidewalks toward the corner grocery. The city roared around her — taxis blaring their horns, street vendors shouting over the hiss of steam rising from manholes, the scent of exhaust mixing with the faint aroma of bagels from a shop across the street.

New York was alive, pulsing, relentless. But for Alison, it was a city that gave her everything and nothing at once.

She pushed through the glass door of the grocery, the familiar jingle of the bell greeting her. The shop smelled of onions, coffee grounds, and the faint sweetness of fruit past its prime. Behind the counter, Kate hunched over a ledger, a pencil stuck between her teeth.

“You’re late again,” Kate muttered without looking up.

Alison winced, tugging off her jacket and reaching for the apron that hung on a hook. “Bus pass expired. Had to walk.”

That made Kate glance up. Her brow softened even though she sighed. “Ali… you can’t keep stretching yourself this thin.”

Alison forced a smile, tying the apron around her waist. “I’ll be fine.” She had repeated that lie so many times it almost sounded like truth.

Her hands moved automatically, arranging loaves of bread, checking fruit for bruises, ringing up early customers. She slipped into the rhythm, grateful for the distraction. But underneath it all, her thoughts circled back to Benjamin.

He had promised to meet her later, after his interview uptown. She pictured him in his best shirt — too tight at the collar but pressed smooth — walking nervously into a sleek office tower. If he got the job, maybe things would change. Maybe the constant tightrope they walked between bills and hunger would ease.

The bell jingled again. Alison looked up, expecting another tired mother or construction worker.

Instead, the air itself seemed to pause.

The man who stepped inside carried with him an aura of possession — as if the store, the city, even time belonged to him.

He was tall, his frame striking in a dark tailored suit that hugged his shoulders perfectly. His hair was slick, catching the yellow light from the bulbs above. His face — chiseled, handsome, untouched by years — was the sort that made strangers glance twice, not because he was beautiful but because he demanded attention.

Alfred Ferguson.

Alison had seen his face before — on billboards advertising sleek high-rises, on the corner of glossy magazines, in news snippets about real estate and tech empires. But she had never expected him here, standing between bins of onions and stacks of canned soup.

Kate’s pencil slipped from her mouth, clattering to the counter. “Holy crap,” she whispered, barely audible. “That’s him.”

Alison’s stomach knotted. “Who?”

“Alfred Ferguson. Billionaire. Owns half of Manhattan.” Kate’s voice dropped to a reverent hush. “He doesn’t shop in places like this.”

Yet there he was, walking slowly down the aisle, his polished shoes soundless on the linoleum floor. His gaze slid across the shelves, across Kate, across the bored teenage stock boy in the back. And then it found Alison.

Her breath caught.

His eyes lingered too long, not just noticing her but studying her. A strange heat crept up her neck as she bent quickly to adjust the apples in their bin. One slipped, rolled across the counter, and thudded to the floor.

He reached the counter, placing a single bottle of imported wine before her. Up close, his presence was heavier, as if the air around him pressed against her lungs.

“You work here?” His voice was smooth, velvet draped over steel.

Alison nodded, throat dry. “Yes.”

“Good.” His lips curved into a smile, though his eyes remained sharp, unblinking. “Then perhaps you can help me.”

Kate leaned forward eagerly. “Mr. Ferguson, what an honor—”

A flick of his hand silenced her. He hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t even looked at her, yet the gesture was enough to make Kate retreat.

His gaze stayed fixed on Alison.

“What’s your name?”

“Alison,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Alison,” he repeated slowly, savoring it. “A pretty name.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. She looked down quickly, sliding the wine into a paper bag. Her hands betrayed her, trembling as they folded the edge of the bag.

“Do you enjoy working here?” he asked suddenly.

The question startled her. She opened her mouth, fumbling for words, but before she could answer, the bell above the door jingled again.

Benjamin.

He strode in, hair ruffled by the wind, his tie slightly askew. Alison’s chest loosened in relief — until she saw the way he froze mid-step, eyes widening. His gaze landed on Ferguson, and the color drained from his face.

Benjamin’s fists clenched at his sides, jaw locking tight.

Ferguson’s smile deepened, though he didn’t look at Benjamin. He reached across the counter, brushing Alison’s fingers lightly as he took the bag. The touch sent a jolt through her, sharp and unwanted.

“Until next time,” he murmured.

Then he turned, walking with deliberate calm toward the door. The black car idling at the curb outside seemed to be waiting just for him.

The door shut, and silence followed, broken only by Alison’s shaky exhale.

Benjamin was at her side in an instant. “What did he say to you?”

“Nothing,” Alison stammered. “He just bought wine.”

Benjamin’s eyes blazed. “You don’t understand. You can’t let him near you. Ever.”

Kate frowned, still dazzled. “Ben, it was just a customer—”

“No.” His voice cracked like a whip, sharp and desperate. Both women jumped. His hand shook as he ran it through his hair, his breathing ragged.

Alison reached for him, but he pulled back. His voice dropped low, raw with something darker than jealousy.

“You don’t know who he is. You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Alison’s stomach twisted. His eyes — wide, haunted — told her this wasn’t simple envy.

“Ben,” she whispered. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, jaw working. His gaze darted toward Kate, then back to Alison. Finally, he just shook his head.

“Stay away from Alfred Ferguson. Promise me.”

Alison wanted to argue, to demand answers, but her words caught in her throat. She turned toward the counter — and froze.

Beneath the bag Ferguson had left behind was a slip of paper, folded crisp. She picked it up, her hands trembling.

Sharp handwriting stretched across the page:

You deserve better, Alison. I can give you everything.

Her stomach dropped. The note slipped from her fingers, fluttering to the floor.