Malcolm Cassar did not believe in destiny.
He believed in case law, precedent, and the beautiful, orgasmic sound of a settlement hitting his bank account. Fate was for people who didn’t read contracts properly.
Which was why the stupid-ass countdown app on his phone had been mocking him for years.
He’d downloaded it during uni—drunk, bored, egged on by friends who thought “soulmates” were a real thing and not just a marketing scam wrapped in serotonin. He forgot about it. Never deleted it. And now, apparently, it had chosen violence.
5 minutes, 46 seconds until you meet your soulmate. The law of time waits for no one.
Malcolm snorted. Yeah, and the law of common sense clearly skipped this app.
He exited the private gym at Verdala Terraces in Rabat, sweat clinging to his skin, lungs burning pleasantly after a high-endurance workout meant to keep him sane in a profession that dealt exclusively with idiots and dead patients. Shirtless, grey sweats hanging low on his hips, headphones blasting something aggressively motivational—he looked exactly like a man who did not have time for mystical bullshit.
Marine biologists, soulmates, time laws. Sure. Whatever.
He was wiping sweat off his face and heading toward the lift lobby when—
Wham.
Impact.
Suitcase. Hard shell. Right into his leg.
“Fuck—” Malcolm hissed, instinctively stepping back as the wheels clipped his ankle. He pulled his headphones down just in time to hear a rushed apology.
And then he looked up.
Tall girl. Travel-worn but annoyingly pretty. Hair a mess in that I just moved countries and I’m too tired to give a shit way. Eyes wide, clearly bracing for him to snap.
Instead, his brain stalled.
Not because of her—obviously women existed—but because his phone buzzed in his hand.
He glanced down.
The countdown had stopped.
No dramatic fireworks. No angelic choir. Just… frozen. Zeroed out.
Dead.
“What the hell,” he muttered.
He shoved the phone into his pocket like it had personally offended him, then straightened, professional instinct snapping into place. Malcolm Cassar did polite very well. It was how he crushed opposing counsel.
“No harm done,” he said, voice calm, controlled, still slightly breathless. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
A lie. He always watched where he was going.
He extended a hand. “Malcolm. Malcolm Cassar.”
The doors opened with a soft ding. He held them, nodding for her to enter first, even reaching out to steady the suitcase like some kind of fucking gentleman. He leaned in and pressed her floor for her without asking—muscle memory from living here too long.
As the doors slid shut, Malcolm caught his reflection in the mirror: sweaty, shirtless, lawyer worth obscene amounts of money, dust allergy that required hospital-grade air filters, and a career built on tearing apart negligent doctors with surgical precision.
The most highly paid malpractice lawyer in Malta.
A perfectionist. A control freak. A man whose entire life ran on logic.
And yet—
His phone buzzed again in his pocket.
He didn’t check it.
Didn’t need to.
Because for the first time in years, Malcolm Cassar had the deeply unsettling feeling that something—someone—had just walked straight into his life on a schedule he hadn’t approved.
And that pissed him off.
…Just a little.