Chapter 7 FIRST MOVE

Raphael's POV

The penthouse felt too large at 3:17 a.m.

London glittered below the glass wall, rain-smeared roads, the Thames a black mirror catching tower lights. I stood with my back to the view, tumbler in hand, ice long gone. The whisky sat untouched on my tongue; it couldn't burn away the loop in my head.

Liana.

I didn't even know her last name until this afternoon.

One night. One reckless, perfect night in a Shoreditch bar that smelled of spilled gin and wet coats. She'd claimed the end stool like she owned the shadows, auburn hair escaping a bun, whiskey eyes scanning the room with the quiet wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust easy smiles.

I'd noticed her the second she walked in.

Not because she was beautiful, though she was, in that sharp, unpolished way that hits harder than perfection. I noticed her because she looked like someone carrying something heavy and refusing to let it show. Shoulders squared. Chin up. A small, private smile when the bartender made a dry joke. She laughed once, it was low, surprised, like she hadn't expected to and the sound cut straight through the noise.

I should have stayed at the bar and minded my own business.

Instead I moved closer.

"Mind if I join you?"

She'd raised an eyebrow. "It depends. Why are you here?"

I'd told her the truth: bored, curious, drawn to the woman hiding in the corner even though she insisted she wasn't.

She hadn't laughed in my face. She'd let me stay.

Conversation had come easy-too easy. Music, London secrets, the absurdity of corporate life. She was quick, sarcastic, flirty in a way that felt like a challenge rather than an invitation. Every time she leaned in to speak over the music, her breath brushed my ear, warm and faintly gin-sweet. I'd forgotten the time, the crowd, everything except the way her eyes lit when she let her guard slip for half a second.

When she'd said yes to leaving the bar, I hadn't questioned it. I'd just taken her hand small, cool from the rain and led her through the wet streets to the hotel around the corner.

The room had smelled of clean sheets and expensive soap. She'd kissed me like she was starving, like the night was the only thing keeping something worse at bay. I'd matched her hunger, careful not to push past where she led. Her nails on my back. She gasped when I found the spot below her ear. The way she'd whispered my name like a question and then like an answer.

It was dangerously perfect and she left before dawn.

She'd left a note on the hotel pad: "Thanks."

No number. No promise of more.

Just "Thanks" and the faint imprint of her perfume on the pillow.

I'd stared at it for longer than I'd admit.

By noon the next day I'd found her.

Not through hacking or surveillance-nothing that dramatic. A quick search on LinkedIn for "Liana" + "data analyst" + "London" + a few keywords from our conversation (spreadsheets, corporate mundanity, sarcastic humor). Her profile was sparse, professional photo, Blaise Corps badge. Liana Bennett.

I could have stopped there.

I didn't.

I'd sent the first message because I didn't want to scare her. " Hello!"

No reply.

I'd sent flowers.

White lilies-clean, elegant, no over-the-top roses. A card with the safest thing I could think of: "Hello! Hope you're good?"

I wanted her to know it wasn't a one-night thing for me.

I wanted her to feel seen.

Now it was past three in the morning and my phone sat silent on the coffee table.

Jackson had confirmed the delivery at 11:17 a.m. She'd opened the box in the office. Half the floor had stared. She'd carried them home instead of leaving them behind.

That small detail kept replaying.

She hadn't thrown them away.

She hadn't left them for someone else to claim.

She'd taken them with her.

I crossed to the bar cart, poured another finger of whisky. The liquid caught the low light, amber refracting gold.

I opened the phone again. The photo I'd taken. The one I pulled from a street cam feed I'd accessed, Her leaving the hotel at dawn: coat clutched against the rain, head down, auburn strands escaping the bun. Alone. Beautiful.

Sending it would be a mistake.

Too intense. Too soon.

Was it creepy?

But the silence was louder than any reply.

I thumbed the screen.

Message sent.

Then the photo.

My heart gave one hard thud.

I set the phone face-down and returned to the window.

Somewhere in Hackney, Liana Bennett was looking at her screen.

Seeing the flowers on her counter.

Reading "Did you get it?"

Opening the attachment.

Seeing herself captured in the rain, unaware.

She'd either block me, delete everything, and disappear from my life forever...

...or she'd answer.

And if she answered-if she let me in even a fraction, I'd spend every day proving I was worth the risk.

I lifted the glass in a silent toast to the dark city.

To the woman who'd walked away without looking back.

Come on, Liana.

Talk to me.