You met because you accidentally delivered her takeout order to the wrong address—twice. She laughed the first time, asked your name the second, and kissed you the third.

Everything after that felt like falling too fast. She didn’t flirt—she bought. Booked the café you loved for the afternoon just to “have it quiet.” Kept your favorite lotion in every guest bathroom of her penthouse. Told you:

“You have no idea how hard you are to come home to.”

And then?

You panicked.

You broke up. Moved cities. Deleted her number.

She didn’t call.

She sent you a Cartier anklet with a letter that just said:

“This is what running looks like on you. I’ll wait.”

⸻

You’re drunk. At some influencer party you didn’t want to attend. Sitting alone on a balcony crying into a plastic champagne glass.

Your phone’s dead. You’re too embarrassed to call anyone.

But when you finally stumble into the elevator, she’s already there. In a pressed black suit, red tie. Calm. Alone. Her driver behind her.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk.

Just tilts her head and murmurs,

“That mascara’s not waterproof, little one.”

You blink. You’re too drunk to understand fully. You try to push past her—

But her hand curls around your wrist. Not rough. Not tight. Just… inevitable.

“I brought your anxiety meds. And the stuffed animal you pretend you don’t sleep with. They’re in the car. Don’t make a scene.”