Ivan's POV
I didn't have a photoshoot today.
For the first time in weeks, I had an entire day to myself—no flashing cameras, no suffocating schedules, no exhausting social events. Just quiet.
I spent the morning doing some home workouts, then lazed around, flipping through shows without really watching them. The plan was simple: do nothing, eat something quick, and crash early.
Then Maksim knocked on my door.
"You should go to the coffee shop in the next building."
I frowned at him. "Why?"
"Just go."
That was all he said.
And since Maksim never suggests anything without a reason, I sighed, threw on a comfortable oversized sweater, a pair of casual jeans, and headed out.
---
The coffee shop is quiet, filled with the rich aroma of fresh espresso and the faint sweetness of pastries. Soft golden light spills across the polished wooden floors, giving the place an intimate, almost dreamlike feel.
I slip inside, my eyes scanning the space, and find an empty seat by the window.
I sit down, ordering a latte, waiting, though I don't know for what.
And then—
A figure slides into the seat opposite me.
I glance up.
The man wears a simple white T-shirt and brown slacks, his face partially hidden beneath a black cap.
For a moment, I just stare, curiosity flickering in my chest.
And then—
He lifts the cap.
Zander.
And fuck.
A Zander in a suit is already lethal—all sharp lines, commanding presence, the weight of his power woven into every tailored stitch.
But this Zander?
Dressed casually, his shoulders relaxed, giving me a nervous, sheepish smile?
This is devastating.
My heart stutters, my stomach dipping.
Because for the first time, Zander doesn't look like the powerful, untouchable billionaire that everyone fears.
He looks young.
Not that he ever looked old, but right now, he could pass for a shy, unsure boy on his first date.
And suddenly, I feel shy too.
"Hey," he says, his voice softer than usual.
"Hi," I respond, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.
God.
Why am I like this?
Zander coughs, shifting slightly. He looks down at his fingers for a brief second before inhaling. "Well, I can't exactly woo you like a broke teenage boy, seeing as you're a famous celebrity and I'm, well… me. But I promise—no extravagant gifts, no ridiculous displays. Just… us. Care to trust me?"
He watches me closely, his expression carefully neutral, but I can see it—the faintest hint of nerves beneath his words.
I wasn't expecting this.
I honestly didn't think he would take my challenge seriously.
But here he is.
Casual. Stripped of his status, his money, his power.
Just Zander.
And he's asking me to trust him.
My chest tightens.
"Sure," I say.
His entire body relaxes, as if he truly thought I might say no.
"May you go on a walk with me?" he asks.
I raise an eyebrow, amused. "Is that a date?"
He hesitates, then grins, bright and boyish, and—fuck, I'm gone.
"Sorta."
*
The air outside is cool, carrying the crisp scent of city pavement and faint traces of night-blooming flowers. The streets aren't crowded, just a few people passing by, lost in their own worlds.
We walk in silence at first.
Not uncomfortable—just… awkward.
I keep stealing glances at Zander, watching the way he shoves his hands into his pockets, his gaze flickering around as if searching for something to say.
I think about how strange this must be for him.
Zander Vale, the man who controls entire industries, who can buy anything he wants, is currently struggling to hold a simple conversation on a date.
It makes me smile.
He catches the expression and narrows his eyes slightly.
"What?" he asks.
"Nothing," I say, stuffing my hands into my pockets. "It's just… you look really uncomfortable."
His lips press together, like he doesn't want to admit it.
"I don't go on walks."
I snort. "No shit."
"No, I mean it." He sighs, rubbing his jaw. *"I don't do… this. The casual, normal, let's-go-on-a-walk-and-talk thing. It's—" he pauses, searching for the right words. "New."
I stop in my tracks, turning to him.
"Zander Vale, are you telling me this is your first date?"
His ears turn slightly pink, and my smirk grows.
"Technically, I've had dates before," he mutters, avoiding my gaze. *"But they weren't like this. They were… arranged. Or expected. Or—" he exhales. "This is different."
He's different.
And it makes something warm curl in my chest.
I let the moment stretch for a beat before nodding toward a small park entrance ahead.
"Come on," I say, nudging him forward. "Let's make it a good one, then."
It's easier after that.
At first, the conversation is stilted, both of us uncertain, trying to find our rhythm.
But then—something shifts.
We fall into an easy pace, footsteps synchronized, our words slowly peeling away the layers between us.
We laugh at stupid stories, small things, things that don't seem important but somehow are.
I learn that Zander hates tomatoes, that he secretly loves old noir films, that he has a playlist full of depressing music he only listens to when he's stressed.
He learns that I used to collect seashells as a kid, that I sometimes talk to my plants, that I have an irrational fear of deep water despite being a strong swimmer.
And at some point, we just… exist.
No pressure. No expectations.
Just us, walking through a dimly lit park at night, sharing pieces of ourselves we never planned to give away.