The impending commencement of university loomed merely a week away, granting me a fleeting span of unclaimed days before academia's inevitable hold took root. At first, I welcomed the tranquility—only for it to sour into vexation by the third day.
An elusive number had taken to haunting my phone, its persistence fraying the last of my patience. With each call, irritation mounted, until at last, I relented.
"Don't call again," I bit out, already shifting to end the call and reclaim my morning.
But then—
A voice, far too familiar. A voice edged with youthful audacity, steeped in a past I hadn't quite left behind.
"Lei, I heard you're in town. Let's meet at Gardenia. Ten o'clock."
A reluctant sound escaped me—more exhale than agreement, yet neither a refusal.
And with that, sleep abandoned me.
Resigned to this unforeseen summons, I slipped from my bed and into the rhythm of routine. The shower was brief, functional. Minutes later, I settled on a minimalist ensemble—a white short-sleeved turtleneck, dark blue trousers, and pristine white sneakers. Over it, a light gray cardigan draped loosely, its soft folds an afterthought of comfort. My hair, pulled into a simple ponytail, left my neck bare, unguarded. The familiar weight of my watch against my wrist served as the final touch—a quiet reminder of time's passage.
Satisfied, I collected my essentials—wallet, keys, phone—and stepped into the awaiting quiet of my car.
Gardenia stood as expected, a place renowned for its tranquil morning ambiance and well-crafted breakfast offerings. Fresh ingredients, fair prices, and a seamless blend of nature and modernity had cemented its reputation, turning it into a sought-after retreat—one that required advance reservations to secure a place within its carefully curated haven.
I arrived ten minutes before the appointment. Punctual, but not eager.
Handing off my car to the valet, I strode toward the entrance, each step carrying the weight of a meeting I had yet to decide whether I welcomed—or merely endured.
Stepping into the restaurant, I was immediately enveloped in a world of lush opulence. Foliage cascaded from above, veiling the tables and sofas in a way that granted privacy without severing the connection to the vibrant energy of the space. The air carried a soft murmur of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware, while warm, golden lighting played against the deep greens, creating a setting that felt both intimate and alive.
My gaze swept across the room in search of Cain. It didn't take long—his enthusiastic wave, more dramatic than necessary, made his location painfully obvious. The table was set in a secluded alcove, hidden just enough for comfort, yet not entirely removed from the public eye.
As I maneuvered through the restaurant, an odd sensation crept up my spine—a growing awareness that eyes followed me. Some stares were brief, polite glances that flickered away the moment I noticed, but others lingered, weighted with something unreadable.
Was it my outfit? Or had I unknowingly done something to draw attention?
The discomfort took root, quickening my steps. I cast a brief glance at my reflection in a glass surface, searching for anything out of place—nothing.
Then—impact.
I collided with something firm, the sudden resistance sending a jolt through me. My breath hitched as I instinctively reached out, fingers brushing against the smooth fabric of a coat before I steadied myself.
A broad chest. Tall frame. Unmoving.
"My apologies, are you—"
I barely got the words out before my gaze lifted—and everything stilled.
The man before me was... strikingly unfamiliar, yet impossible to ignore.
´Ink-black hair, tousled yet effortlessly elegant, framed sharp, refined features. His skin was porcelain-pale under the restaurant's soft lights, as if untouched by the sun, and his lips—soft, peach-tinted—pressed into a firm line, betraying neither irritation nor amusement. But it was his eyes that anchored me in place.
Crystalline grey, cold and fathomless, narrowed ever so slightly, as if my mere existence had disturbed his world. His lips, a faint whisper of peach, pressed into an unreadable line, while his dark brows furrowed in a manner that felt almost...imperial. Detached. Irritated, even.
A sovereign of ice, dwelling in an Arctic realm untouched by trivial concerns.
They held no annoyance. Not with curiosity, either, but something sharper—something calculating. As if he were studying me, piecing something together in silence.
His brow furrowed slightly, the smallest shift in his otherwise unreadable face.
A fleeting thought crossed my mind—Did he know me?
But that was impossible. I didn't know him. I would have remembered someone like him.
So why did it feel like, in that moment, he knew something I didn't?
A burgeoning exchange, heavy with unspoken words, was abruptly interrupted—Cain's voice slicing through the charged silence like a well-timed reprieve. The weight of the moment splintered, the room's chill dissipating as attention shifted. I exhaled, a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Yet, if relief existed, it was fleeting.
Cain's invitation was both a rescue and a trap. A familiar presence in an unfamiliar setting, he offered the illusion of ease—but comfort came hand in hand with uncertainty. I caught sight of his companions at the table, and for a fleeting second, considered making my exit. But fate had other plans.
Cain's voice, once again, shattered the moment's fragile hold, pulling me away from whatever had just transpired. His hand rested lightly at my back, an unspoken reassurance as he guided me toward the table—one strategically placed just beyond the reach of wandering stares. A sanctuary, albeit temporary.
Introductions followed.
Kiran Nasir, his kindness reflecting in the warmth of his gaze, stood in stark contrast to the pristine, polished air he carried. There was something effortlessly composed about him, yet not in an unattainable way—his presence was inviting, unguarded.
Kenji Ren was the embodiment of tranquility, his silence speaking louder than most conversations. He exuded a quiet self-assurance, the kind that made you wonder how much he observed and how little he revealed.
And then—Lucian.
Still unreadable. Still watching.
His gaze didn't waver, didn't soften, didn't offer anything that could be labeled as polite curiosity. It was an assessment. A slow, deliberate study of something he hadn't quite figured out yet—but intended to.
The weight of it unsettled me.
The meal became a symphony of half-heard conversations—Cain, Kiran, and Kenji speaking with ease, their words flowing around me as I quietly observed, an outsider slipping between the spaces of their camaraderie. Silence suited me, and I let it stretch, using it to listen, to learn.
And yet, through it all, I felt it.
Lucian's unwavering scrutiny.
Detached. Indifferent. And yet, far too focused to be truly disinterested.
Long after the plates had been cleared, after conversations had shifted into something lighter, I found myself caught off guard once more—this time, by Cain's easy tone as he casually unraveled his true intentions.
A revelation that settled uneasily between us.
And with it, a single question—one deceptively simple, yet unbearably heavy.
"Why did you invite me?"
A fleeting exchange of glances passed between Kiran and Ren, their expressions betraying a moment of silent realization. Something unspoken had shifted between them—something that, unmistakably, had to do with Lucian. Yet he remained unmoved, his scrutiny on me unrelenting, pressing down with a weight I refused to acknowledge.
I was not some artifact to be examined.
The silence around the table thickened, an unspoken understanding settling between the three men as their attention subtly but collectively turned toward Lucian—as if awaiting his signal.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"How did you discern it?"
His voice was crisp—uncompromising in its directness, sharp in its delivery. A lesser person might have faltered beneath its weight, but I found it... refreshing. At the very least, it was an approach I could respect. Efficiency had its merits.
My expression remained even, my words measured.
"All of you."
Ren's brow furrowed, and he exchanged a glance with Kiran, both of them seemingly at a loss. My gaze drifted briefly toward Cain, expecting an intervention of sorts—an explanation, a rebuttal, perhaps even amusement at my remark. Instead, he remained detached, nursing his tea with the air of a mere observer.
"He knows me," I clarified, voice steady. "There must be a reason for this arrangement."
Still, Ren and Kiran appeared none the wiser, their confusion tangible. I had neither the patience nor the inclination to elaborate. If they sought answers, they could uncover them on their own.
Lucian, however, seemed... entertained. Barely. A flicker of amusement ghosted across his features—a quirk of the lips, a hint of something not quite reaching his eyes. If he found this amusing, I did not.
My patience had run its course.
"This is unnecessary," I said, rising from my seat. "If there's nothing of importance, I won't waste any more of my time."
Lucian said nothing, merely watching.
Cain, however, reacted at once—his voice steady, but carrying an urgency I couldn't ignore.
"Lei, just this once, hear them out.
I hesitated, but only briefly. My hand hovered over my cup, fingers grazing the porcelain edge. A calculated pause. Then, a slow, deliberate sigh as I allowed my gaze to settle upon the tepid depths of my tea, masking the simmer of frustration beneath a veneer of cold indifference.
"Let us not dwell on my annoyance," I murmured.
Cain, ever perceptive, heard the unspoken weight behind my words. His tone softened, almost pleading. "I take full responsibility. Don't hold it against them."
Slowly, I turned to him. My expression revealed nothing.
"Your turmoil has been acknowledged." My voice was cool, detached.
"Lei..." Cain exhaled, his frustration evident. "Look at me. Ease your vexation."
His eyes sought mine, his plea evident in their depths. I refused to grant him the satisfaction so easily.
A moment stretched between us before I spoke again—a deliberate, calculated shift in topic.
"Haya and Yara's birthday..."
"I'll handle the gifts and arrange the event," he interjected swiftly.
"The restaurant's expenses—"
"I'll cover the bill for the entire week."
"Mother prefers—"
"I'll procure whatever she desires. Lei." His voice dropped just slightly, the weight of his request clear. "You've made your point. Just... listen."
For a moment, I said nothing. Letting him wait.
Then, finally, a faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered at the corner of my lips—not quite forgiveness, but an acknowledgment.
Cain, ever the opportunist, seized upon my silence as a victory, exhaling in relief. He flagged down a waiter, ordering more tea and dishes. The server hesitated, clearly surprised at the quantity of my request, but nodded and left without question.
Cain's gaze flickered toward me, one brow arching.
"More?"
"Indeed." My response was unruffled.
Kiran observed me for a long moment before tilting his head slightly, a hint of curiosity in his expression. "Where do you put it all?" His gaze flickered over my frame, as if seeking an answer.
I didn't dignify the question with a response. Instead, I turned my attention toward the three men who had yet to state their case.
"You may continue."
A sip of tea punctuated my words, my meaning clear—I would listen. Nothing more.
Ren, expression tinged with hesitation, slid a neat stack of documents toward me.
"Would you mind taking a look?"
With a slow, deliberate motion, I accepted the papers.
Without a word, I turned the first page.
L A I N