The next day, at Altverra High School's courtyard, Elliot sat beneath an ancient oak tree near the western fence. The sky had been overcast since morning, and a cold wind carried the remnants of dew from the grass.
He chewed on a dry piece of bread he'd stolen from the cafeteria kitchen. Not the first time. Certainly not the last.
Yet today, his mind was elsewhere.
Not on hunger. Not on the landlord who'd nearly dragged him out last night.
But on the woman who'd come to him in the rain.
The woman who walked without an umbrella, carrying only a paper box and the sharpest gaze Elliot had ever seen.
That woman—Jayde Claire.
"Can a woman really be that rigid?" he muttered between slow bites. "Then why am *I* the one who can't stop thinking about it?"
Her stare hadn't touched him with gentleness, but with unyielding firmness. Not warmth, but distance. Yet that was precisely why he couldn't shake her from his thoughts.
Elliot kicked a small pebble, then stood and slipped out through the back gate. He knew his own schedule: he'd skip the next art class without hesitation. What interested him more was the curiosity gnawing at his chest.
He didn't know much, but he wasn't stupid. He remembered the small logo on the woman's coat sleeve last night. A logo that belonged to only one place: Valmere, the most luxurious restaurant in Cielmont District.
---
Meanwhile, Claire stood before the full-length mirror in her office. She'd just finished reviewing the weekly marketing report and was due to attend a meeting about the fourth branch's development in Lautven. Yet her mind wasn't where it should be.
The image of that boy's face lingered in her vision—eyes burning with defiance yet still alight with life.
A soft knock came at the door. Henri's voice followed: "The car is ready, Miss Claire."
Claire nodded without turning. "Delay the meeting by two hours. Send Director Allen a personal apology."
Henri hesitated. "Is there a more pressing matter, Miss?"
"There is," Claire answered curtly. "I'm going to Valmere."
---
Elliot stood outside the restaurant he'd stared at from afar the night before. This time, he didn't just look—he walked in. His steps were light, but his demeanor remained as unpolished as ever.
A hostess approached, poised to reprimand him, but Elliot spoke first. "I want to see the manager."
The woman frowned. "May I ask why, sir?"
Elliot glanced around, then smirked. "I need to know who owns this place. Might marry their daughter someday."
The hostess stiffened, but before she could respond, the sharp click of heels echoed from the second-floor staircase. Every head turned.
Claire descended, bathed in the warm glow of a chandelier that caught the pearls dangling from her left ear.
When their eyes met again, Elliot grinned like a child who'd found a new toy.
And Claire—who never faltered—felt her chest tighten with something she didn't yet understand.
She descended the stairs unhurriedly, her steps measured and commanding. The staff parted without a word. The air grew heavier with each tap of her heels against marble, ringing like faint chimes that carried invisible weight.
Elliot leaned against a pillar, greeting Claire with half-mocking amusement. His hands stayed shoved in his pockets, as if his presence were the most natural thing. Yet his eyes never left her for a second.
"So, this is your place," he remarked flatly, almost to himself.
Claire stopped a meter away, staring him down with a gaze that made grown men flinch. "Why are you here?" Not anger—just pointed disinterest.
"I'm hungry," Elliot said breezily. "And curious."
"About the restaurant?"
"About *you*."
Claire didn't react. She only studied him harder, dissecting the rain-drenched boy who stood before her without shame.
"If you want food, ask properly. Don't loiter like a stray drawn to light."
Elliot's grin widened. "Thought you'd figured out I *am* a stray."
A silence hung between them before Claire turned away. "Follow me."
The staff exchanged glances but stayed silent. Elliot trailed Claire through a quiet hallway to a private dining room upstairs.
Once inside, Claire sat and gestured to the chair opposite hers. Elliot dragged it back reluctantly, his smirk never fading.
No food arrived. Claire didn't order. She simply watched him. He watched back.
Finally, Claire spoke: "You didn't come here just to eat."
"Right again," Elliot said. "I came because you've been stuck in my head since last night."
A confession that sounded like a joke, delivered with unsettling calm.
Claire crossed her legs, unblinking. "Many people want to know who I am. They read news, dig through company records, or ask insiders. You show up like a street rat, sit where you please, and stare at me as if I—"
"As if you're untouchable," Elliot cut in.
Another pause. Their gazes clashed—not in anger, but in a silent contest. Two people from different worlds, neither backing down.
Then Claire said softly, "If I let you eat here today, what will you do tomorrow?"
Elliot reclined in his chair. "Come back. Maybe bring a friend. Or just sit here annoying you like this."
Claire tapped the table once. "Do you always talk like this to women who feed you?"
"No. You're the first."
"Then what makes me different?"
Elliot's smile turned razor-sharp. "Because you never asked for my name."
Claire didn't return the smile. Yet in her chest, something stirred—not emotion, not sympathy, but intrigue for the reckless audacity of a boy who dared disrupt her stillness.
And for the first time in years, Claire no longer felt entirely alone inside her own mind.