I wasn't supposed to see him until the gala.
That was the plan. Clean lines, clear boundaries. One week to mentally prepare, then show up looking like I belonged, survive three hours of small talk, and go home with a good story and zero complications.
Except Alexander Sterling was sitting in my coffee shop.
Not my coffee shop, technically. But the one I came to every Saturday morning because it was cheap and quiet and the barista didn't judge me for camping out with my laptop for four hours on a single americano.
He was in the corner booth, facing the door like someone used to watching exits. Navy sweater, jeans - the kind that probably cost more than my couch but looked effortlessly normal. He had a newspaper. An actual physical newspaper. Who even did that anymore?
I froze halfway through the door.
He looked up.
For one ridiculous second, I considered turning around and leaving. Pretending I hadn't seen him. But his eyes had already found mine, and something flickered across his face- surprise, maybe, or recognition.
He stood. "Aria."
"Hi." My voice came out weird. Too high. I cleared my throat. "I didn't - This is my coffee shop."
"Is it?" He glanced around like he was seeing it for the first time. "I've been coming here for two years."
"Seriously?"
"Every Saturday. Usually earlier, though." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Join me?"
It wasn't really a question, but it wasn't a command either. Just... an invitation. I should've said no. Should've grabbed my coffee and found a table on the opposite side of the room like a normal person with functioning self-preservation instincts.
Instead, I sat down.
"What are the odds?" I said.
"In a city of eight million?" He almost smiled. "Higher than you'd think. People are creatures of habit."
The barista - Marco, who'd seen me here every week for six months- appeared with a knowing look. "Your usual?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
After he left, Alexander said, "Americano. Black."
I blinked. "How do you-"
"You ordered it the night of the gala. From the catering bar." He said it casually, like remembering someone's coffee order from three weeks ago was normal. "You also don't like salmon. You rearranged three canapés on your tray to avoid carrying it."
I stared at him. "That's... weirdly observant."
"I notice things." He folded his newspaper - the Times, because of course it was. "Especially when I'm supposed to be listening to a speech about fiscal quarter projections."
"You were watching me during your own event?"
"I was watching everyone. You just happened to be more interesting than municipal bonds."
Marco returned with my coffee, and I wrapped my hands around it like it might protect me from whatever this conversation was becoming.
"So," I said. "Do you do this often? Memorize random staff members' drink orders?"
"You weren't staff."
"I was literally carrying a tray."
"You were crashing." His tone was light, almost amused. "There's a difference."
I took a sip of coffee to buy time. He was doing that thing again - looking at me like I was a puzzle he enjoyed not solving. It should've been unsettling. It was unsettling. But also... something else I didn't want to name.
"Why are you really here?" I asked.
"For coffee. Same as you."
"Alexander."
He exhaled, and for a second, the careful composure cracked. "Fine. I saw you walk in. I'd already been here for an hour, and I... I thought about leaving before you noticed me."
"Why?"
"Because this-" He gestured vaguely between us. "-is complicated enough without running into each other at coffee shops."
"Then why didn't you leave?"
He looked at me for a long moment. "Because I didn't want to."
The honesty landed heavier than it should have. I didn't know what to do with it, so I deflected. "You could've just not invited me to your gala."
"I could have," he agreed. "But I did. And you said yes. So here we are."
"Here we are," I echoed. "One week out, and I still don't know why you care."
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah. It does." I leaned forward. "Because guys like you don't just... notice people like me. Not without a reason."
His jaw tightened. "People like you."
"You know what I mean."
"I don't, actually. Explain it to me."
There was an edge to his voice now - not anger, but something sharp underneath. I'd hit a nerve.
"I'm not-" I gestured helplessly. "I don't have money. Or connections. I crashed your event because I got a misdirected invitation and thought, what the hell, free champagne. You run a billion-dollar company. We don't exactly move in the same circles."
"No," he said quietly. "We don't."
The way he said it felt like a door closing.
I should've let it go. Should've finished my coffee and left. But something stubborn in me pushed. "So what is this? Some kind of... charity case? Rich guy helps struggling writer, feels good about himself?"
His expression went cold. Actually cold, in a way I hadn't seen before. "If that's what you think this is, then maybe you shouldn't come to the gala."
"Maybe I shouldn't."
We sat there in tense silence. Around us, the coffee shop continued its Saturday morning rhythm - steam hissing, conversations humming, someone's laptop playing music too loud. Normal life, happening while we had whatever this was.
Finally, Alexander spoke. His voice was controlled, but I could hear the frustration underneath. "I invited you because when I talked to you - for ten minutes in a service hallway - it was the first real conversation I'd had in months. Maybe years. You weren't performing. You weren't trying to impress me or get something from me. You were just... you."
He stood abruptly, pulling out his wallet. "But if you think I'm some kind of bored billionaire looking for a project, then I apologize for wasting your time."
He put a twenty on the table - way too much for a coffee - and turned to leave.
"Wait."
He stopped but didn't turn around.
"I'm sorry," I said. My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "That was... I'm defensive. It's a thing. I say stupid stuff when I'm-"
"Scared?"
I wanted to argue, but he was right. "Yeah."
He turned back to face me. Some of the coldness had thawed, but the wall was still there. "I'm not trying to fix you, Aria. Or save you. Or whatever narrative you've built in your head."
"Then what are you trying to do?"
"I don't know yet." He said it like a confession. "I just know that I want to find out. And I thought - maybe stupidly- that you might want to find out too."
Before I could respond, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and I saw something shift in his expression. Work mode. The mask sliding back into place.
"I have to go," he said. "Meeting in twenty."
"Okay."
He hesitated, then: "The gala. You're still coming?"
I should've said no. Should've taken the easy out he'd just handed me. But instead, I heard myself say, "Yeah. I'm still coming."
Something softened in his face. Not quite a smile, but close. "Good."
He left without another word, and I sat there with my cooling coffee and the twenty-dollar bill he'd left behind, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened.
Marco appeared to clear Alexander's cup. "So. That's a thing now?"
"I don't know what that is."
"Uh-huh." He grinned. "For the record? He's been coming here for two years. I've never seen him sit with anyone before."
"Really?"
"Really. He always sits alone. Reads his paper. Leaves." Marco picked up the twenty. "Also, he's never left a tip this big. You've got him rattled."
After he left, I opened my laptop, intending to work. But I couldn't focus. My brain kept replaying the conversation, trying to decode it. The way Alexander had looked when I accused him of charity. The crack in his voice when he said real conversation.
He wasn't what I expected. And that was the problem.
Because I'd been ready for him to be a cliché - rich, entitled, playing games with people for entertainment. That version I could've handled. Could've kept at arm's length.
But this version? The one who noticed my coffee order and admitted he didn't know what he was doing?
That version was dangerous.
I closed my laptop and stared out the window at the street where his car had disappeared. One week until the gala. One week to decide if I was brave enough - or stupid enough - to see where this went.
Spoiler: I'd already decided.
I just didn't want to admit it yet.