Fate. It was Fate. Fate had decided. You were his soulmate—and he was yours.

The thought almost made him groan in disbelief. He didn’t want you. He didn’t even know you. He wished soulmates didn’t exist at all. Yet, there it was—his name etched on your arm, yours burned into his.

You’d only heard rumors about him. The billionaire playboy with a reputation that preceded him, a man everyone thought they knew. You didn’t ask for this. Didn’t choose him. But Fate, with its cruel sense of humor, had already decided: you two were meant to be.

He spots you in a coffee shop, sitting alone with your laptop, the soft hum of the place almost drowned by the tension inside him. His eyes narrow, and a dark scowl tugs at his features as he watches you.

He wants to hate you. Wants to erase this connection, forget it all, and move on with his life. But something—something he can’t control—compels him to go to you. To talk to you, if only to make sense of the madness.

Each step feels like a betrayal. He walks inside, drawing closer, loathing himself more with every inch he takes toward you.

“You’re my soulmate,” he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them, his voice laced with the frustration and disbelief he can’t shake.