Chapter 4 Uninvited thoughts

The memory of his uninvited visit haunted me like an unfinished song-a melody half-played and stuck in my head. No matter how hard I tried to push it away, the notes lingered, repeating endlessly. Was I already imagining things, or was this something real? Something dangerously close to a feeling I wasn't ready to admit?

For days, the thought of him tangled with my every waking moment-his sharp gaze, the subtle softness I glimpsed beneath his usual mask, that unexpected apology. Every time my mind drifted there, my heart thudded faster, and I had to remind myself not to be foolish.

I needed to clear my head. Shake it off.

That morning, the world was still waking up when I laced my running shoes and stepped outside. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of dew and freshly mown grass. The sky stretched wide and lazy, painted in pastel pinks and blues that promised a perfect spring day.

I slid my earpiece in and turned up the volume, letting the pulsing beats of my playlist push the cluttered thoughts aside. The rhythm synced with my heartbeat, steady and grounding. With every step, I felt myself unravel a little-the tension in my shoulders easing, my breath smoothing into a calm, rhythmic pattern.

For a moment, I was just Arielle. Not the woman tangled up with the billionaire CEO. Not the girl whose life had suddenly become a whirlwind of tension and uncertainty.

Just me.

Then, fate decided to remind me otherwise.

I rounded the corner onto Maple Street and almost collided with him.

Damian Wolfe.

There he stood, right in front of me, as if he belonged to the morning itself-his dark gym clothes clinging to his body, damp with sweat, outlining every sharp muscle like a sculpture. His hair was still tousled from his workout, and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the clean smell of fresh air, invading my senses.

I swallowed hard, the breath catching in my throat.

"You again?" I asked, trying to sound annoyed but failing miserably. "Are you following me now?"

He smirked, that infuriatingly confident smile spreading across his face. "I should be asking you the same."

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitched upward despite myself.

There was something disarmingly easy about him now-less tense, less guarded. Almost like the man beneath the CEO façade was letting me see a glimpse of himself.

For a long moment, neither of us said anything. The sounds of the waking city-cars starting, birds chirping-faded into the background.

Then, almost softly, he asked, "How are you doing?"

The question hit me like a splash of cold water.

"How am I doing?" I echoed, surprised at the vulnerability in his voice.

I hesitated, the words trapped in my chest.

"I'm... okay," I said finally, trying to sound casual.

He nodded slowly. "Running helps, doesn't it?"

"It does," I admitted. "It's the one time I'm not thinking about everything."

There was a pause. Then he asked, "Mind if I join you?"

I blinked in surprise. Before I could think it over, he was already jogging in place, warming up his long legs.

There was no denying it: running beside Damian Wolfe was going to be a whole different kind of challenge.

We fell into step side by side, matching each other's pace as we moved down the street.

The initial awkwardness melted away, replaced by a strange comfort in simply sharing the space.

He joked about how running was torture but necessary. I teased him for being too disciplined. We laughed-a soft, genuine sound that surprised me both times it escaped my lips.

Somehow, in the midst of casual banter and the steady rhythm of our feet against the pavement, the distance between us shrank.

I found myself wanting to know more.

When we slowed near the park, Damian's voice softened as he said, "I have a daughter. Emma. She's your age."

I stopped, stunned.

"She's everything to me," he added quietly. "Losing my wife was the hardest thing I've ever faced."

His eyes darkened with a pain I hadn't seen before. The hard edges of the CEO melted into something more fragile, more human.

I wanted to reach out, to say something comforting. But the words wouldn't come.

Instead, I just nodded, feeling a sudden tenderness blooming inside me.

In that moment, the age difference-the sharp divide between our worlds-felt smaller, almost irrelevant.

He wasn't just the arrogant man from the mall. He was a father, a grieving husband, a man carrying invisible scars.

And somehow, knowing that made him less intimidating, more real.

We walked in silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that didn't need to be filled with words.

As we approached the junction where my street branched off, he slowed and turned toward me.

His eyes locked onto mine with that same intense, unreadable expression.

"Would you like to go on a date?" he asked.

My heart slammed against my ribs, breath catching sharp.

For a moment, I just stared.

And then, without hesitation, I said, "Yes."

He smiled-the kind of smile that reached his eyes and softened his whole face-and pulled out his phone.

We exchanged numbers, and he handed me a card with the time and address.

The invitation felt like a promise. A new beginning.

Back in my apartment, the tension I'd been holding in all day broke free.

I screamed, a high, joyous sound, and threw myself onto the bed, kicking my legs like a lovesick teenager.

My heart raced, every nerve alive with excitement and nerves.

I pictured us together-how good we'd look, how good it might feel.

But beneath the thrill, a quiet voice whispered warnings I couldn't ignore.

He's a billionaire.

You're a woman trying to survive.

This isn't a fairy tale.

Still, the hope flickered-a tiny, stubborn flame in the dark.

Maybe this was something worth risking.

Maybe I was ready to stop running from what I wanted.

The days leading up to our date were a mix of restless energy and nervous anticipation.

Every time my phone buzzed with a message from him, my stomach flipped.

His texts were surprisingly warm-no games, just honest curiosity and a touch of humor.

He asked about my day, shared random thoughts, even recommended a book he thought I'd like.

I found myself smiling at my phone, wondering if he was doing the same.

On the night before our date, I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The quiet hum of the city outside was a reminder that the world didn't stop for anyone-not even me.

But maybe, just maybe, my world was about to change.

Because beneath the uninvited thoughts, the tangled emotions, and the reckless hope, one thing was clear:

Damian Wolfe wasn't just a distraction anymore.

He was becoming something more.