Chapter One: Fate?

Kier – POV

It was all perfect.

Which meant it wouldn’t last.

I finished my shift at the flower shop, the smell of freesia and gardenia clinging to my clothes, then headed to the café to meet my friends before my night job.

The bell over the door chimed, and Mina was already waving from our usual corner booth, a caramel latte steaming in front of her. Ando sat beside her, laptop open, scanning code like it was scripture. Sabine leaned back against the wall, legs crossed, smirking at something on her phone.

“Key!” Mina pulled me into a hug before I even sat down. “They’re opening enrollment for that history of music audit class again. You have to take it with me this time.”

I slid into the booth, tugging at my sleeve. “You know I can’t. I’m not exactly flush with… time.”

“It’s free to audit,” she pushed. “You’d love it—composers’ influences—”

“—And it meets twice a week in the middle of the day,” I cut in. “You know where I am then? Working.”

Mina pouted like I’d just kicked a puppy. “Still think you should make time for yourself.”

Ando glanced up from his laptop. “Speaking of time—help me troubleshoot? That script you wrote me last year won’t integrate with the new build.”

I leaned over, scrolling through the code. “Missing semicolon. And this function isn’t closed properly.”

He grinned sheepishly. “That’s why I keep you around.”

Mina sighed and shifted in her seat, her spoon clattering against the saucer a little too loudly. Ando’s gaze flicked up at the sound, narrowing slightly.

“By the way, Mina—are you seeing someone?” he asked, tone casual but eyes sharp. “I stopped by your dorm the other night, and there was… a lot of noise.”

Mina froze, color rising to her cheeks. She busied herself with her napkin, refusing to meet his stare. “Not… talking about that.”

Ando opened his mouth like he might press further, but Sabine cut in smoothly, eyes glittering. “Ando, jealous much? Maybe you just need to get laid yourself.”

He sputtered, caught off guard, and Mina shot her a grateful glance.

Sabine smirked, clearly enjoying herself, then turned her focus on me. “Speaking of which—what about you, Kier? Have you found someone yet?”

“Someone?” I deadpanned.

“Boy, girl, alien—whatever.”

“None of the above. And I’m not looking.”

“Which means,” she said, sipping her espresso with maddening calm, “someone’s about to fall right into your lap.”

I huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”

⸻

I left the café with their laughter trailing after me, heading the opposite way from the university. Toward streets where the lights flickered and the asphalt cracked.

The satchel on my shoulder felt heavier than it should have. Not just because of the envelope of cash inside, but because of what it represented. Debt. Always there. Always tightening like smoke around my ribs.

The debt collector’s office looked worse than usual—blinds crooked, the smell of mold bleeding into the street.

I pushed open the door expecting the usual: greasy grin, stained desk.

Instead—blood.

The man I’d been paying for years was on his knees, coughing red, while someone twice his size held him by the shirt.

The someone was silver-haired. Tall. Broad. Dressed in a suit sharp enough to cut.

At his shoulder stood another man, light brown hair, hazel eyes—watching, cataloguing, like he missed nothing.

“Monthly due,” I said flatly, though my pulse rattled.

The silver-haired man turned. His eyes caught mine like a clean blade. No hesitation. No warmth. Just precision.

“And you are?”

“Kier Begonia. I’m here to pay my debt.”

Something flickered in his face—interest, maybe amusement. He dropped the collector, let him slump against the wall, and stepped toward me.

Something cold settled in my gut. Not fear.

Recognition.

“Seems I’m your new debt collector,” he said, grin slow and cocky. “Your friend owed me. The money he lent your parents? Mine now.”

I held out the envelope. “Great. Then take it.”

He didn’t. “You could offer your body instead. Might be more… interesting.”

A test. Half-joke, half-threat.

I shoved the envelope into his chest. “Go crawl in a grave.”

His grin widened. I turned on my heel, flipping him a neat middle finger on my way out. The hazel-eyed one smirked as I passed.

⸻

By the time I reached the hostess club, my hands had mostly stopped shaking.

Uniform on. Hair smoothed. Professional smile ready.

“Requested client,” my manager said, handing me a slip with the room number.

I slid the door open—

And there he was.

The silver-haired man.

Leaning back like he owned the air itself.

Across from him sat an older French businessman, one I knew well. The type who liked to feel important.

I switched to French without pause. “Bonsoir, monsieur. What will you drink tonight?”

He smiled, answered in kind, and I kept the glasses full, nodding at the polite lies they traded.

But the whole time, I felt him.

Lavender Aquila.

The name came up soon after. Too soft for someone made of sharp edges. A flower on a flower. Unexpected. Fitting.

Had he been here before?

I couldn’t place him. But I would’ve remembered. I was sure of it.

I shook the thought away, forcing focus back to the client. Pour. Smile. Nod.

It wasn’t uncommon to drink with them—keep them loose, comfortable. I always kept count. Because sometimes they wanted more than flirting. When that happened, security handled it. Or I did.

But Lavender… he knocked me off balance in a way no one else managed.

It was the way he watched.

Not distracted. Not casual. Studying. Like he was stripping away the mask I’d spent years perfecting. Maybe it came from his line of work—the kind where reading people meant survival.

Didn’t matter. I hated it.

I was pouring another round when it happened. A slip. My balance wavered. I tried to play it off, graceful, inconspicuous—

But then his hand was there.

Light. Careful. Anchoring me just enough to steady.

Somehow, that was worse than falling.

His eyes caught mine. Sharp. Knowing. He didn’t say a word. And that silence said everything. Like he’d filed the moment away somewhere I’d never reach.

His hand was careful. Too careful. A man like him didn’t do careful unless he wanted something.

⸻

Time blurred after that. The Frenchman wrapped up his pitch with a little more flirting, whispered something in my ear I pretended to laugh at, then shook Lavender’s hand and left.

As they stood, Lavender adjusted his cufflinks—obsidian, I noticed—and said, casual as ordering a drink:

“Work for me.”

The hazel-eyed man—Julian, I’d later learn—handed me a card.

Annoyance burned hot in my chest. I gave them the smile I saved for clients who pissed me off.

Crumpled the card in my palm. “Not interested.”

Still, it slid into my pocket.

They left in silence, stepping into a black SUV that rolled into the night. Expensive cologne lingered in the room. That, and something sharper—something I couldn’t name but knew I wouldn’t forget.

When the door clicked shut, I finally exhaled.

I should’ve tossed the card.

Burned it. Flushed it.

Instead, I slid it deeper into my pocket — not because I was tempted (I told myself that twice), but because something about him had already lodged under my skin.

The way he looked at me.

Like I wasn’t a debt.

Like I was an acquisition.

I told myself I wouldn’t use it.

I was lying.

I’d known it the moment he touched me.

Because if Lavender Aquila thought he’d already figured me out—

he wouldn’t need to wait long to be proven wrong.

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