Chapter 2 It just happened.

The dim light of the bar flickered as Arya pushed open the heavy door, the faint murmur of conversations and clinking glasses washing over her. She had chosen this place on a whim, a spot she'd heard Kian Grey frequented when he wanted to escape the cold glass towers of his corporate world.

Arya wasn't supposed to be here, not tonight. But after the long day of chasing leads and dodging office gossip, she needed to breathe.

She came to observe, not engage. The plan was to catch a glimpse, maybe overhear something useful. But plans, as she was learning, meant nothing when Kian Grey walked into a room.

He appeared just after 10 p.m. - taller than she expected, broader in the shoulders, with a jawline that could slice through glass. The photographs hadn't captured the way he moved: smooth, deliberate, like he knew the world bent around him without asking.

He headed straight for the bar and took the third stool from the corner - a seat that offered a full view of the room and no view of himself. Smart.

Before she could even process her nerves, a man in a suit approached him - older, tense, familiar. A former partner? Lawyer? Investor?

They exchanged quiet words. Arya couldn't hear them over the low hum of jazz and clinking glasses, but she saw the way Kian's jaw tightened. The subtle curl of his fingers into fists. The way he downed his drink like it was water.

He was upset. Shaken, even - and that only made her more curious.

The man eventually left, and Kian waved the bartender over for something stronger. Arya glanced away quickly, unsure what to do - until the bartender gestured toward her.

"Another drink?" he asked her.

She hesitated. Then glanced at Kian. "Only if he's paying," she said lightly, trying to sound braver than she felt.

Kian turned his head, slow and cool. His eyes locked with hers, unreadable.

"I am," he said simply.

Just like that, the ice was broken.

***

They didn't exchange names. She didn't even offer a fake one, and he didn't seem to care. They spoke about the music. About the bar's ridiculous prices. About nothing and everything, like strangers who had no business knowing each other yet couldn't stop talking.

Arya could feel her mission slipping. The article. The secret. The reason she was here. None of it made sense while sitting next to him, his voice low and rough, his focus shifting to her like she was a puzzle he couldn't solve.

One drink turned into three.

Then, unexpectedly: "Come with me."

Her breath caught.

It wasn't a question. There was no pressure, just a quiet, private certainty. A part of her screamed to walk away - this was too personal, too far - but another part, the reckless one, the lonely one, whispered: *Just once.*

She followed.

***

She found herself in a private room upstairs, a haze of intoxication and reckless abandon blurring the lines between caution and desire.

.The hotel suite was minimalist and cold, like the man himself - black marble, sharp lines, no softness. Yet the moment the door shut, the distance vanished.

The night was theirs-unexpected, unplanned, and electric

There were no names, no rules. Only heat. Hands and mouths. Her mind screamed this was a mistake, but her body didn't care.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't planned. It was something in between release and surrender.

Later, when Kian finally stilled beside her, his breath evening out, Arya stared at the ceiling, her chest tight.

She'd just slept with the man she was supposed to be exposing.

What had she done?

***

A sharp buzz jerked her awake.

*Her phone.*

She reached for it quietly, heart pounding. *Leonard.* Her boss.

She slipped out of bed and padded to the far end of the suite before answering.

"Arya," his voice snapped, low and impatient, "where are you? Please tell me you've made contact."

Her throat tightened. "I'm... I'm working on it.""Well, work faster. This isn't a lifestyle piece. I want substance, not fabric swatches."

He hung up.

Arya turned, phone trembling in her hand - and saw Kian still asleep, the sheet tangled around his waist, one arm over his eyes.

He looked nothing like the man on magazine covers. He looked real. Breakable.

Panic hit her like ice water.

She had to go.

Quickly, quietly, she gathered her clothes, slipping them on piece by piece in the dark. Her heart raced with every movement, terrified he'd wake and ask questions she wasn't ready to answer.

When she opened the door to leave, she turned back for a second.

*He didn't know her name.*

And if she had her way - he never would.

-

Morning light spilled softly through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. Kian's eyes fluttered open, the fog of last night still heavy in his mind. He blinked, trying to piece together the fragments of memory-the laughter, the touch, the warmth beside him.

But when he turned, the bed was empty and no sign a person was there.

A quiet stillness filled the space where she had been.

He sat up, rubbing his temples. The alcohol haze dulled his thoughts, making it impossible to clearly recall her face or even her name.

Had she been real, or just a dream slipping through his fingers?

He strained to remember-was it the woman from the bar? The one who seemed so different from all the others? But all that came were blurred impressions: dark hair, soft eyes, a hesitant smile.

He was never one to be with a stranger but this stranger had an aura he wanted.

Confusion settled over him like a thick fog. He wanted to reach out, to hold on to whatever connection they'd shared, but it slipped away, elusive and fleeting.

He sighed deeply, a mix of frustration and curiosity tugging at him. Who was she? Why couldn't he remember?

And as the morning sun climbed higher, Kian Grey made a silent promise to find out.

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