I write happy endings for a living, which means I am professionally obligated to believe in the "Meet-Cute."

You know the scene. The girl is rushing down the busy city sidewalk, carrying an armful of manuscripts and a scalding hot latte. She bumps into a handsome stranger. Papers fly. Coffee spills. Their eyes meet, hands brush as they pick up the mess, and boom—true love.

I thought about that trope right up until the moment I slammed into a solid wall of human muscle and ruined my own life.

It was 8:45 AM on a Tuesday. I was wearing my favorite sunflower-yellow trench coat, practically vibrating with caffeine, rushing to my editorial meeting.

As I rounded the corner of 5th Avenue, I collided hard with someone.

My Venti caramel macchiato exploded like a sticky, sugary grenade.

"Oh my god!" I gasped, stumbling back.

It wasn't a meet-cute. It was a meet-casualty.

I looked up, ready to deploy my usual charming apology. But the words died in my throat.

The man I had just baptized in caramel was… terrifying.

He was incredibly tall, dressed in a bespoke pitch-black suit that probably cost more than my apartment. The hot coffee was currently dripping down his pristine silk lapel, ruining the expensive fabric.

But it wasn't the ruined suit that stopped me. It was his face.

He had sharp, aristocratic features, and eyes so dark they looked like endless, freezing voids. He didn't flinch. He didn't curse. He just stood there, completely still, radiating an aura of absolute, freezing power.

Three men in dark suits immediately stepped out from the shadows behind him. Bodyguards.

"Sir," one of the guards said, reaching into his jacket.

The man held up a single, long finger. The guards froze instantly.

He slowly lowered his hand and looked down at his ruined suit, then up at me.

My brain, overwhelmed by the sheer, predatory danger rolling off this man, decided to do the absolute worst thing possible. It deployed my defense mechanism.

I laughed.

It was a breathless, slightly hysterical giggle.

The man’s dark eyes narrowed. The temperature on the sidewalk seemed to drop ten degrees.

"You find this amusing?" His voice was low, smooth, and chillingly calm. He didn't yell. He didn't have to. The quietness of his voice made the hair on my arms stand up.

"I'm—I'm so sorry," I choked out, desperately digging into my tote bag and pulling out a crumpled napkin. "It's just… you look like a mafia boss, but right now you smell like a teenage girl's breakfast. It's a very confusing juxtaposition."

The bodyguards looked like they were ready to plan my funeral.

The man didn't blink. He just stared at me. He looked at my bright yellow coat, my messy hair, and my trembling hand holding out the useless napkin.

"A mafia boss," he repeated softly, tasting the words.

"Or an angry billionaire," I rambled, unable to shut my mouth. "Look, send me the dry-cleaning bill. Seriously. I'm Hazel. Hazel Thorne. I work at the publishing house across the street. Just… please don't have your goons throw me in the river. I have a deadline at noon."

I shoved the napkin into his hand. Our fingers brushed. His skin was freezing cold.

"I have to go. So sorry!" I squeaked, stepping around him and speed-walking away as fast as my heels could carry me.

I didn't look back. If I had, I would have seen that he wasn't wiping the coffee off his suit.

[Alistair's Perspective]

He watched the girl in the bright yellow coat disappear into the sea of grey pedestrians.

Hazel Thorne. She had laughed at him.

Men had thrown themselves out of windows to avoid Alistair Sterling. Politicians groveled at his feet. Entire corporations crumbled when he snapped his fingers.

And this girl had ruined a ten-thousand-dollar Tom Ford suit, called him a mafia boss, and laughed.

"Mr. Sterling?" his head of security, Marcus, asked hesitantly. "Should I have the car brought around so you can change?"

Alistair looked down at the crumpled, cheap napkin in his hand. He could still feel the phantom warmth of her fingers brushing his.

It was an annoying, foreign sensation. A bright, irritating spark of color in his perfectly controlled, pitch-black world. He wanted to crush it. No, he wanted to put it in a cage and study it.

A slow, dark smile curved his lips.

"No, Marcus," Alistair murmured, his eyes fixed on the revolving doors of the publishing house Hazel had just run into. "Call the office. Clear my schedule."

"Sir?"

"And I want a complete dossier on Hazel Thorne by noon," Alistair commanded, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. "Her bank accounts. Her landlord. Her boss. Her friends."

Marcus swallowed hard. "Are we eliminating a threat, sir?"

Alistair crushed the napkin in his fist.

"No," he said softly. "We are going to ruin her life."