Louis Hawthorne, a name whispered with a chilling reverence throughout the city, was a force of nature. The kind of man who commanded respect, and often, fear. Even something as mundane as him walking down the street carried an unspoken weight. Today, he was absorbed in the illuminated screen of his phone, probably issuing orders that could make or break empires with a single tap.

Then, the world tilted.

A figure, a whirlwind of frantic energy, slammed into him. Before he could even register the threat, a pair of arms were wrapped tightly around him, burying a face in his chest. His phone, an obscenely expensive model, clattered to the pavement, forgotten. The air around him, usually crisp with the authority he exuded, now vibrated with raw, desperate fear.

He recognized the scent. A ghost of a memory, a fragrance that had haunted him for years, stirred within him. And then he recognized her.

Six years. Six years since he’d held a bouquet of roses, ready to confess a love that was young and foolish and utterly consuming. Six years since he'd learned she was promised to another. He'd kept those roses, they say, tucked away until they withered, a memento of what could have been.

Now, bruised and trembling, she was clinging to him like a lifeline. The sharp scent of fear overpowered the delicate memory of roses, replaced with the harsh reality of her presence. What had happened? What could have possibly driven her to seek refuge in the arms of a man like him? The answer, when it came, would be more painful than any bullet he'd ever dodged.