The rain came down in fierce sheets, distorting the traffic and converting the sidewalk to a river. Aria Drevan clutched the bouquet in her hand—white tulips, which she had ironically selected for peace, now drenched and wilting. Her umbrella had collapsed minutes before, a victim of the wind's viciousness. She pushed on through the storm, her silk dress plastered against her body.
It was meant to be a peaceful delivery. Flowers only. Nothing else.
Then came the splash. A wave of muddy water crashed against her from the side. Aria gasped, stumbling as her heels lost traction on the wet ground. The bouquet escaped her hands. Her dress, ivory and beautiful, was now streaked with earthy brown. She turned slowly, ice forming in her eyes.
A sleek black Bentley rolled to a stop, the tinted window lowering just enough to reveal a smug, impossibly handsome face. Dark hair, jawline like a blade, and the kind of arrogance that could be bottled and sold at luxury auctions.
Damien Cross. Today, of all days, he felt playful. He just wanted to be cheered up, and anything would do just fine. As he drove, He watched the lady ahead of him with a killing physique, "It's time to get laid," He veered into the gutter on purpose. Splash. "Target achieved," he murmured to himself.
He didn't apologize. He didn't look sorry. His mouth curled in the faintest smirk. "Watch where you're walking next time," he said lazily like she were just another commoner in his billion-dollar path. Then the window rolled back up. Damien waited, knowing the young lady would need assistance. Pretended like he was driving off, but what happened next is something he had not anticipated.
Aria stared at the car. She didn't think. She acted.
She snatched a jagged stone from the ground and hurled it unflinchingly towards the back. It slammed into the Bentley's windshield with a satisfying crack, spiderwebbing the glass. She was content; she smiled. "Let's see what you're gonna do now, bastard."
The car screeched to a halt. The door opened. And there he was—six feet of tailored fury, stepping into the rain as it bowed to him. Damien looked at his windshield, then at her, eyes narrowing. "Are you insane?" he barked, stepping closer.
Aria met his gaze, rain dripping from her lashes. "No, you didn't expect that, where is the smug now, dick head?" she said coolly. "I am just allergic to assholes."
His jaw ticked. "You damaged a seventy-thousand-dollar windshield."
"You ruined a dress worth half that," she shot back. "And a client's bouquet. Should I invoice you?" They stood face to face, water cascading around them, locked in a standoff —a lion and a lioness, neither wanting to back down.
"Do you even know who I am?" he asked, a voice dipped in amused threat. "Don't you know who you are?" She replied. lifting her chin, " I still wouldn't care if you were the king of Mars." A silence. Then, the faintest flicker of a smile tugged at his lips. "You're going to regret that."
She stepped forward. "And you're going to remember it."
The tension crackled between them like lightning overhead. Then Damien shook his head, gave her one last look, and returned to his car. This was not the way he had planned to end his evening at all.
The engine revved, and the Bentley disappeared into the storm.
Aria exhaled, adrenaline coursing through her. Her side ached from standing stiff in the cold, and her dress was ruined. But she didn't regret it. Not for a second.
Some men needed to be reminded that money didn't make them untouchable.
She turned, heading back toward her flower shop, Elysian Petals, where the real Aria lived behind the vases and smiles. There, her past had been buried under fresh blooms, where blood was washed away with rosewater, and silk hid steel.
Two Months Later
"Are you sure about this?" her aunt asked, pouring tea.
Aria stared at the invitation on the table. It was gold foil in an ornate font, and one word stood out: engagement.
Her ex. Michael. Already engaged to a tech heiress, barely eight weeks after dumping her. He hadn't even looked her in the eyes when he'd said, "You're… sweet, Aria. But boring. I need someone who fits my future."
He meant someone rich.
"I'm fine," Aria said, folding the invite and sliding it into the bin.
Her uncle grunted. "You're twenty-seven. We have covered for you long enough. It's time you married."
Aria rolled her eyes. " You never get to rest with that; Is this now the 'find a husband or we'll do it for you' talk?"
"It's not a threat," her aunt said gently. "You need to find a husband within the month, or you'll meet the one we have in mind for you." "I thought you just said this was not a threat." "Sweetheart, I know how you think it's been two years since you promised to find someone suitable. We allowed you to have the fling with that imbecile, but now it's time for commitment." Her uncle responded. "His parents are old friends, and he is successful."
Aria groaned. " Fine, when do I get to meet this perfect man of yours? And define successful.
"Very," her uncle muttered. "But difficult. … hear him out. Meeting is tomorrow."
Elsewhere in the city, in a tower of glass and steel, Damien Cross sat in a boardroom, bored.
"You asked for two months, and what is there to show?" his mother snapped. " Well, son, time is up. I have set a date for you, you will be meeting this lovely lady whom you knew when you were young." I won't have the tabloids saying my son can't keep a relationship."
I don't need a wife to run a billion-dollar empire," Damien replied.
"You need an heir."
He sighed. "Fine. Set up the meeting. But she better not be another influencer with more Botox than brains."
His father chuckled. "She's different."
Damien leaned back. "They always say that."