The rain came down in silver sheets, turning the sidewalks of Lexington Avenue into glistening rivers. Ava Collins darted between commuters, her tote bag clutched to her chest to shield the precious old camera inside. She didn't mind getting soaked—she was used to it—but the thought of rainwater seeping into her Canon was enough to make her sprint the last block to Maison Grise.
She pushed open the glass door, a chime announcing her late arrival. The café's warmth wrapped around her, carrying the scent of espresso and fresh pastries. Clarissa, the manager, gave her a look sharp enough to cut steel.
"You're late again," Clarissa said without looking up from the register.
Ava shook the rain from her curls and offered a half-smile. "Subway stalled. Again."
"Clock in. And please, Ava, try not to look like you've just been dragged through the Hudson."
As Ava tied her hair back and grabbed a rag to wipe the counter, she glanced at the usual morning crowd—finance types in tailored coats, tourists speaking rapid French, the occasional celebrity hiding behind oversized sunglasses. The door chimed again.
And he walked in.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of face that could sell anything from cologne to private jets. His suit was charcoal perfection, his tie a whisper of deep blue silk. But it was his eyes—icy, calculating, and strangely curious—that made Ava pause, rag frozen mid-swipe.