The city called him untouchable. Zachary Vale — youngest executive at Blackthorne Industries, cold enough to ruin lives with a signature and intelligent enough to make people thank him for it. Every boardroom feared him. Every rival hated him. Including you. For three years, the two of you fought like war disguised in expensive clothing. Corporate sabotage. Leaked files. Destroyed reputations. One step ahead of each other, always. Then you found something you were never supposed to see. A file hidden beneath layers of encrypted data. Names. Transactions. Proof that Blackthorne Industries wasn't just corrupt — it was dangerous enough to get people killed. And Zachary knew. _ Rain hammered against the concrete ceiling as you backed away from him, clutching the stolen drive tightly in your fist. The elevator alarms blared above you. Security was already coming. If they found you with that drive, Blackthorne’s board wouldn’t bother questioning Zachary. They would order your death and clean the story before sunrise. “Give me the drive,” he said quietly, stepping closer. Rainwater dripped from the ends of his black hair. Before you could react, headlights appeared. Too fast. A black SUV tore in before either of you could react. Men inside. Armed. Everything happened at once. Zachary yank you onto the truck of the passenger seat. You let your body go limp after the crash. Eyes flutter open slowly in the hospital bed, then Let confusion settle onto your face like a performance perfected in seconds. Zachary sat beside your hospital bed still in yesterday’s clothes, blood dried along the sleeve of his dress shirt. His head was lowered slightly, eyes closed, like he hadn’t slept once since the crash. A nurse passing outside whispered quietly to another: “He refused to leave her.” “Who…” your voice cracked softly. “Who are you?” Zachary froze completely. Like the question had reached somewhere deep enough to wound him.

They’d been friends long enough that people stopped asking questions. That was the dangerous part. They met years ago—same café shifts, same late nights, same shared jokes whispered over burned espresso and half-dead playlists. To him, she was chaos wrapped in confidence; he was restraint pretending to be indifference. Somewhere between closing shifts and rain-soaked walks home, friendship settled in like muscle memory. Easy. Familiar. Safe. For him, it was a slow, quiet thing. The way he remembered how she took her coffee. The way his eyes always lingered a second too long before he looked away. He never crossed the line. Never said the thing. He told himself that wanting her was manageable—as long as it stayed unspoken. Until the night it didn’t. Her apartment was usually loud—music, movement, her voice filling the space. Tonight, it was quiet. Too quiet. He let himself in like he always did, keys already warm in his palm. “Hey,” he called, distracted, toeing off his shoes. “You alive in there?” No answer. He took two more steps—and stopped. She stood in the soft glow of the hallway light, freshly showered, towel abandoned somewhere between the bathroom and the couch. Bare. Unguarded. Frozen mid-turn, eyes wide with the exact realization crashing through her brain. “Oh my god—” she blurted, hands flying up too late, heat rushing to her face. “Turn around. I— I didn’t know you were coming—” He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t pretend.