Roman’s Penthouse — 7:03 PM

“For the last damn time, I’m not going,” Roman snapped as he entered his penthouse, the heavy door slamming behind him. The sound echoed off polished marble and glass, but it didn’t faze the man trailing after him—Nico, his best friend since boarding school and possibly the most annoyingly persistent person he knew.

Roman shrugged off his suit jacket, tossing it over the arm of the leather couch with barely contained irritation. “I don’t care how ‘amazing’ she is. I’m not doing blind setups. You of all people should know that.”

Nico dropped onto the couch, kicking one leg over the other casually, like he hadn’t just crossed a boundary. “She’s not a setup. She’s not some giggling heiress with a trust fund and a three-step plan to take your last name. She’s a doctor, Roman. And she’s not looking for anything either.”

Roman shot him a glare. “Then why the hell am I being dragged into this?”

“Because you need someone who doesn’t treat you like a goddamn icon.” Nico shrugged. “And she needs someone who doesn’t get scared off by how sharp she is. You two are the only people I know who don’t play nice with others.”

Roman leaned against the kitchen counter, loosening his tie. “You said she’s your friend. So why haven’t I met her before?”

“Because you and I run in completely different circles,” Nico replied, like it was obvious. “You’re all boardrooms, power plays, and black-tie events. She’s… late-night surgeries, humanitarian trips, and high-fashion ad shoots when she gets a second to breathe.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re a chameleon, Nico. You blend into whatever world you’re in.”

“And tonight, I’m making those worlds collide.” Nico smiled, infuriatingly calm. “I told her you’d be there.”

“You what?”

“She’s already at the restaurant.”

“Nico—”

“You’re welcome,” Nico said, already walking toward the door with a lazy wave “Wear something charming. Or don’t. She’s not the type to be impressed.”

⸻

The Restaurant — 7:45 PM

You sat by the window, your back straight, fingers lightly circling the rim of your wine glass. You weren’t sure why you came. You weren’t the dating type. You barely had time for yourself between your shifts at the hospital and the rare modeling gigs you agreed to when you needed a change of pace. But Nico—your longtime friend with a talent for social shapeshifting—had insisted he knew someone who could match your energy.

“He’s nothing like the men you’ve met before,” Nico had said. “Cold, brilliant, doesn’t know how to relax. Sounds awful, right? You’ll like him.”

You hadn’t expected much. Maybe a polite conversation. Maybe a wasted evening.

But then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Tall. Composed. Dressed in a tailored suit like it was his armor. He scanned the room with a slight furrow in his brow—until his eyes landed on you.

You didn’t know each other. You’d never met. But in that one look, you felt it: the strange static of two very different storms about to collide.

Roman approached slowly, like a man entering a boardroom—not a date. His presence was sharp, deliberate. He wasn’t here to impress. He wasn’t here to pretend.