The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the penthouse floor of the Alden Residences — one of the most exclusive addresses in the city.
Collin Cooper stepped out, his strides unhurried, his navy suit jacket slung effortlessly over one shoulder. The kind of man who never had to try to be noticed — but always was.
His features were sharp, as if carved rather than born, like something meant for magazine covers but rarely caught by cameras. Thick lashes framed intense, brown-gold eyes that held more stories than anyone would ever be allowed to hear. His tousled hair — the perfect balance of messy and intentional — fell just above his brow, nearly identical to the look that made headlines when Zayn Malik first stepped into the spotlight.
Except Collin didn't need the spotlight.
It followed him anyway.
The door to his penthouse clicked shut behind him.
Silence.
No assistants. No voices. Just the low hum of a jazz playlist floating through sleek marble floors and warm, earthy tones. Real art lined the walls — nothing generic, nothing for show. Everything in the space felt curated. Not lavish. Intentional.
He tossed his keys into the dish by the door and loosened his tie.
Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a soft glow over the man the city whispered about — brilliant, impossible, untouchable. But here, in the quiet?
He was just Collin.
And his mind was still tangled in that meeting with Maverick.
It had been tense from the start — the kind of tension that wasn't written in the numbers but woven into every word. On paper, the deal made sense: high stakes, high reward, exactly the sort of merger his father had been pushing for.
But every instinct in Collin's body had recoiled.
Maverick was polished, but hollow. Charismatic, but slippery. And Collin had seen enough of the industry to know when a smile was hiding something rotten.
Still, walking away from the deal wouldn't go over well. His father would lose it. Months of negotiation, power moves, public optics — all down the drain if Collin pulled the plug.
And yet…
What really unsettled him wasn't the deal.
It was Catherine.
He'd met her twice — once at the café where she worked, when he stopped in on a rainy afternoon, and again days later, completely by coincidence.
That should've been it. Two passing moments.
But they stuck with him.
She stuck with him.
Why?
He wasn't the kind of man to dwell on strangers — especially not women. Not after two fleeting encounters. He didn't get attached. He didn't get curious. But with Catherine, something had lodged under his skin.
Why did it bother him — the way Maverick had reacted when her name came up? Why did the tension in Maverick's eyes spark something cold and fierce in his chest?
He barely knew her.
So why did it matter?
Why had he seen that bruise and wanted to destroy someone?
Why the sudden, irrational feeling that someone had crossed a line that belonged to him?
He let out a quiet breath, dragging a hand through his hair. None of it made sense.
And maybe that's what scared him most.
He moved into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of cold water, and leaned against the counter. But his mind was still in that car — the night she'd sat beside him, hair damp from the rain, wrapped in his jacket, her hands curled around a hot chocolate like it was the only warmth left in her world.
And the way she said thank you.
Like it cost her something.
Like no one had ever meant it before.
He stepped into the living room, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. From the outside, he was the image of control — wealth, confidence, power.
But inside?
He was done pretending.
Tired of women who chased his name, not his silence. Tired of boardroom politics. Tired of admiration that only went skin-deep.
Catherine hadn't admired him.
She'd looked at him. Really looked.
She hadn't tried to impress him. She hadn't asked for anything.
And maybe, just maybe… that honesty was what had cracked something open inside him.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling until her name appeared.
Catherine. Just her name.
He didn't press call.
He didn't text.
Not yet.
Instead, he walked out onto the balcony, the city lights glinting below like distant stars. The wind played with his shirt sleeves as he leaned against the railing — a king in a glass tower, wondering why all his gold felt like ashes tonight.
He didn't want to fix her.
He didn't even know her.
But he wanted to understand.
And something deep in his chest whispered that this wasn't about coincidence anymore.
It was about timing.
And how sometimes, the people we meet twice... are the ones we were always meant to find.