POV: Alina Maxwell
Alina pulled her jacket tighter, the November air cutting through like a warning. Her boots were worn, her shift had run overtime, and the shortcut home was the only thing saving her from collapsing. Her manager made her stay late for inventory again. The overtime? Barely enough for a used textbook. Her boots were falling apart, and the alley shortcut was her only mercy tonight.
The sound came suddenly—a grunt of pain followed by the unmistakable thud of flesh meeting brick, the violence of it making her freeze mid-step, her heart immediately racing as her mind processed what she was hearing. Through the shadows ahead, she could make out figures moving in the darkness, three or four men surrounding someone pressed against the wall, their voices low and threatening in a way that made her stomach turn with recognition of danger.
She should've turned back. But the sound of a man groaning—again—snapped something in her. Damn it.
"Hey!" The word escaped her before she could stop it, loud and clear in the narrow space, causing all the figures to turn toward her at once. "Leave him alone!"
The men laughed, the sound echoing off the wet walls in a way that made her skin crawl, but she stood her ground, reaching into her bag for her phone with movements she hoped looked more confident than they felt. "I'm calling the police," she announced, her voice steadier than her trembling hands as she held the device up, the screen's light illuminating her determined face in the darkness.
"Mind your business, little girl," one of them growled, taking a step toward her, but she was already dialing, her fingers moving with practiced speed even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
"Yes, I need police at the alley between Fifth and Morrison, there's an assault in progress," she spoke clearly into the phone, making sure her voice carried to the attackers even though the call hadn't actually connected—her phone service had been cut off three days ago for non-payment, but they didn't need to know that.
The men exchanged glances, weighing their options, and in that moment of hesitation, sirens wailed in the distance—pure coincidence, but perfectly timed—and suddenly they were scattering, disappearing into the night like cockroaches fleeing from light, leaving their victim slumped against the wall.
Alina rushed forward, her boots splashing through puddles as she reached the injured man, her hands hovering uncertainly as she tried to assess the damage in the poor lighting. He was well-dressed even in his disheveled state, his suit probably worth more than she made in three months, and blood trickled from a cut above his eyebrow, stark against his pale skin.
"Are you okay?" she asked, already knowing it was a stupid question but needing to say something as she knelt beside him, ignoring the cold water that immediately soaked through her jeans. "Can you stand? We should get you to a hospital—"
"I'm fine." His voice cut through her concerns like ice, sharp and dismissive despite the obvious pain he was in, and when he opened his eyes to look at her, they were the coldest shade of gray she'd ever seen, like storm clouds before lightning strikes.
"You're bleeding," she pointed out, pulling tissues from her bag because of course she didn't have anything actually useful for a situation like this, her movements gentle as she pressed them to the cut on his forehead despite his attempt to lean away from her touch.
"I said I'm fine," he repeated, pushing himself up from the wall with movements that spoke of stubborn pride rather than actual capability, his jaw clenched against what must have been considerable pain. "You shouldn't have gotten involved. It was dangerous."
The sheer arrogance of his tone made her blink in surprise, her hand still extended with the bloodied tissues as she watched him straighten his expensive jacket with movements that were somehow both pained and imperious. "Excuse me?" she said, feeling her own spine straighten in response to his dismissal. "I just saved you from getting beaten to death and you're lecturing me about danger?"
"I didn't ask for your help," he said, his voice carrying the kind of authority that suggested he was used to having the last word in every conversation, used to people deferring to him without question.
"No, you were too busy getting your head bashed in to ask for anything," she shot back, her exhaustion and his ingratitude combining into a flare of temper that overrode her usual caution around obviously wealthy people. "But you're welcome anyway."
She stood, shoving the tissues back in her bag with more force than necessary, water from the ground making her shoes squelch unpleasantly as she moved. "There's a hospital two blocks east," she informed him curtly, already turning to leave because she'd wasted enough time on this ungrateful stranger and she still had three chapters to read before tomorrow's morning class.
"Wait."
The word stopped her, not because of its volume but because of something in his tone—not quite an apology but perhaps the ghost of one, a recognition that he'd been unnecessarily harsh to someone who'd tried to help him.
She turned back reluctantly, watching as he pulled out his phone with movements that suggested his ribs might be bruised along with his pride, his fingers moving across the screen with practiced efficiency despite the blood still trickling down his face.
"Let me at least pay for your taxi home," he said, and it wasn't quite an apology but it was closer than she'd expected from someone who wore arrogance like armor. "It's late, and as you pointed out, dangerous."
"I don't need your money," she replied, the words automatic because accepting charity had never been easy for her, even when every logical part of her brain screamed that she should take it, that she could use that taxi fare for food tomorrow.
"Pride is expensive when you can't afford it," he said, and the words should have been insulting but somehow weren't, delivered with a matter-of-fact tone that suggested personal experience.
"So is dignity," she countered, lifting her chin in a gesture of defiance. "And that's one thing I can still afford." She shot back.
Something in his eyes flickered, like he wasn't used to being talked back to.
"At least let me call my driver for your safety."
"I've been getting home safely for years."
"Then let me do it for mine."
She hesitated, then sighed. "Fine. But only because you look like you'll collapse in five minutes."
A ghost of a smile. He made the call, then leaned back against the wall with stiff poise.
"You're a student," he said suddenly, not a question but a statement.
"Yes," she confirmed, seeing no point in elaborating.
"What are you studying?" The question surprised her, delivered in the same tone he might use in a board meeting, but she sensed genuine curiosity beneath the formal delivery.
"Education," she replied, then felt compelled to add, "I want to be a teacher."
"Teaching doesn't pay well," he observed.
"Not everything worth doing comes with a paycheck." she said, the words coming out more defensively than she'd intended.
He nodded, as if the thought surprised him.
A sleek black car pulled up. The driver stepped out, silent and efficient.
"Thank you," he said suddenly, "For intervening. Most people wouldn't have."
"Most people have more sense," she replied, but she softened the words with a slight smile because despite everything, she was glad she'd helped, glad those men hadn't done worse damage to someone who, despite his coldness, didn't deserve to be beaten in an alley.
He handed her a business card then, pulled from his wallet with movements that suggested practice at networking events and power lunches. "If you ever need anything," he said.
"I won't," she said with quiet certainty, because accepting help had never been her strong suit and she doubted that would change just because a stranger in an expensive suit had offered.
He studied her for another long moment, then nodded as if she'd confirmed something he'd suspected. "No," he agreed. "You won't."
"You should really go to a hospital," she called out as he reached the car, unable to help herself because despite his arrogance and her irritation, she was still the kind of person who worried about others, even when they didn't deserve her concern.
"Goodbye, Alina Maxwell," he said.
In her apartment, Alina peeled off her wet clothes and dropped onto the bed. She finally looked at the business card.
Aiden King
CEO, King Technologies
It didn't mean anything to her.
He watched her walk away through the tinted windows of his car, this strange, stubborn girl who'd faced down three attackers with nothing but a dead phone and pure determination, who'd rejected his money and his help with a dignity that reminded him of something he'd lost long ago, before board meetings and contracts and the cold calculation of success had replaced every warmer impulse he'd once possessed.
The driver pulled away smoothly, professionally not commenting on the blood or the circumstances or the unusual detour to ensure a stranger's safety, and Aiden let himself sink into the leather seats, closing his eyes against the pain that was making itself known now that adrenaline was fading.
But as he rode the private elevator up to his penthouse, his phone buzzed with a message from Veronica, checking in from her medical conference in Singapore, and for the first time in two years, he let it go unanswered, too caught up in the memory of gray eyes that had looked at him like he was just a man, not a bank account or a business opportunity or a strategic alliance.
The rain continued to fall, washing away the blood from the alley walls, erasing the physical evidence of their encounter. But some meetings leave marks that no amount of rain can wash away, and in two different parts of the city, two people who had no business thinking of each other found their thoughts returning again and again to those few minutes in a dark alley when their worlds had collided and something indefinable had shifted.
Neither of them believed in fate.
Both of them were wrong.