It was supposed to be just a quick escape from the rain—a small, rundown theater he'd ducked into without much thought. Quentin never expected that inside, he'd find himself unable to look away from a woman who was crying her eyes out.
She sat a few rows ahead of him, off to the side. In the dim glow of the projector, all he could see was the outline of her face. But even that incomplete glimpse was enough to keep his gaze locked on her.
The theater was old-fashioned, the equipment outdated, the seats worn out. The film playing that night was Audrey Hepburn's classic, Roman Holiday.
He had no idea whether the others in the theater were also hiding from the rain, but even in the small space, there were maybe a dozen people scattered around.
Quentin didn't understand why his attention kept returning to that woman.
She wasn't the type he usually went for—certainly not the sexy, fiery kind he'd dated in the past.
Her outfit… seemed elegant, modest even.
He hadn't gotten a good look; the movie had already started when he arrived, and the low lighting made it hard to see clearly anyway.
As the film neared its end, the woman started crying even harder—so much so that Quentin found himself wondering if she'd need to rehydrate soon.
She looked like a delicate flower on the verge of wilting.
When the credits rolled and the lights came up, Quentin didn't move.
He just sat there, watching as the woman stood and finally revealed her full face.
She was beautiful—not the kind of beauty that stunned you on first glance, but the kind that knew her strengths and accentuated them with poise and elegance.
Her features were soft, refined, and utterly charming.
He couldn't help but stare.
He stood as well, trailing after her as she exited the screening room.
Just outside, she bent over—seemingly struggling with something near her feet.
"Miss, do you need help?"
And there it was—something he never thought he'd do: approach a woman who didn't give off the vibe of knowing how to "play the game."
Women like her weren't usually his type.
He preferred lively, flirtatious types with obvious sex appeal.
Janet had never been to a theater like this before.
Recently, her daughter sparked her interest in vintage cinema.
So when she passed by and saw Roman Holiday on the marquee, she walked right in.
The movie was lovely, and though the theater was a bit run-down, she could overlook it…
Until she stepped on a wad of gum.
That alone was enough to shatter her carefully maintained poise—and make her want to scream.
At that very moment, a deep, magnetic voice came from above her.
It was the kind of voice that could make any woman swoon—even better than the male lead in the movie she'd just seen.
Especially when it came attached to someone offering help in her moment of distress.
Janet was no exception.
At least, not until she lifted her head and met his eyes.
Then she got mad.
"Where are your eyes looking?"
She immediately clutched her chest with her hand, shielding the view from his line of sight.
Quentin froze, awkwardly realizing that from his angle, he'd indeed had a rather generous view of her most… feminine features.
Yes, his gaze had lingered.
But it hadn't started with that intention, okay?
He liked bronzed, sun-kissed skin—not the creamy, porcelain type like hers.
And his past girlfriends? Way curvier than she was.
So really, what made her think he was checking her out on purpose?
He wanted to argue, to explain.
But the more he thought about it, the more it felt like any excuse would just dig a deeper hole.
And worse, his eyes still refused to look away—fixated on the slivers of pale skin showing through the gaps in her fingers.
Janet was furious.
She'd seen men like this before—the type that ogled without shame.
But usually, when confronted, they had the decency to look away.
Not this guy.
He didn't even blink.
It was like her hand might as well not be there. He was practically staring through it.
"Pervert."
That was the worst she could bring herself to say—her good upbringing had robbed her of any saltier insults.
She grit her teeth through the discomfort of gum-covered shoes and marched toward the theater exit.
Quentin stood there watching her go, rubbing his face in frustration.
I must be losing my mind.
Why did it feel like letting her walk away was some kind of loss?
He'd only ever felt this when his company hemorrhaged money in the early startup years.
As she neared the doors, about to vanish from view, Quentin snapped.
He ran after her.
"Hey, Miss! I don't know if I mentioned it, but I happen to be very experienced in removing gum from shoes!"
To Janet, the voice behind her only confirmed one thing:
This man was insane.
The more he called out, the faster she ran.
The rain outside had picked up considerably.
Thanks to the city's awful drainage system, puddles were everywhere.
Janet cursed her earlier decision to go out alone for "inspiration."
She hadn't brought her driver, and now she couldn't even hail a cab.
But luck was still on her side—just barely.
A taxi pulled up not far from her, dropping off a passenger.
She made a beeline for it.
And then—splash.
A passing car zoomed through a puddle, sending a wave of dirty water right over her.
"Ugh—"
Tears streamed down her face.
This was the second-most humiliating moment of her life—right after discovering her ex, Reynolds, had been cheating on her and begging for a divorce through sobs.
Then, suddenly, a warm man's blazer was draped over her shoulders.
It was expensive—she could tell that instantly.
But more than that, it smelled like cologne and carried a comforting warmth.
A small act of kindness on a miserable day.
"Why is it that every time I see you, you're crying?"
First in the theater, now outside.
She really was a girl who made people worry.
Before she could react, Quentin bent down and scooped her into his arms—princess style—and placed her in the taxi.
"I'm Quentin Sanders. What's your name?"
His eyes held a quiet but unshakable intensity, one that refused to take no for an answer.
"Janet… Moran."
The name slipped out of her lips before she could stop it.
Just minutes ago, she had placed him on her mental list of Most Hated Men Ever.
Now, faced with his penetrating gaze, she couldn't help but feel like a trapped animal.
Like prey caught in the hunter's sights.
Her whole body trembled—not in fear, but in something else.
Quentin was mesmerized.
He'd never dated a woman like her.
Hell, he'd never even considered it.
But now, looking at her…
He didn't want to let her go.
"It's a beautiful name,"
He said, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it.
And before she could retaliate, he dashed out of the cab—narrowly dodging her handbag that came flying after him in a rage.
The taxi sped away like it was being chased by ghosts.
Standing in the rain, Quentin rubbed his fingers together, savoring the lingering warmth of her skin.
"I'll be seeing you again, Janet,"
He murmured with a grin.
After all, he had always been taught:
If you want something, chase it.
And now that he had found a woman he truly wanted, there was only one thing to do—go after her.
What he didn't know yet…
Was that this self-proclaimed suave playboy, this man who prided himself on charm and control…
Would one day be reduced to nothing more than a wife-obsessed madman.