Thursday afternoon arrived with a brittle tension. The East End Community Center, despite the frantic cleaning, still smelled faintly of mildew and floor wax beneath the overpowering scent of lemon disinfectant. Weak sunlight streamed through the high, dusty windows, illuminating particles dancing in the air. Alex stood rigidly near the back wall of the main hall, exactly where Ms. Flores had positioned him. He wore his cleanest jeans and a plain blue t-shirt, feeling exposed and absurdly self-conscious. Marco stood beside him, a silent, watchful presence radiating barely contained hostility.
Outside, a low murmur grew. Black SUVs with tinted windows pulled up to the curb. Cameras flashed. Alex's heart hammered against his ribs. *Just wallpaper. Just wallpaper.*
The double doors swung open. Amelia Vance entered first, crisp and efficient in a tailored pantsuit, her smile polished and professional. She scanned the room, her gaze briefly touching Alex and Marco before moving on. Then, flanked by two serious-looking men who were clearly security, he walked in.
**Ethan Thorne.**
He looked like he'd stepped off a magazine cover, even more jarringly out of place than Alex had imagined. A flawlessly cut navy suit, a crisp white shirt open at the collar, no tie. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his pale skin seemed to glow under the fluorescent lights. His expression was a mask of polite detachment, but Alex, who had seen the fury beneath the ice, recognized the subtle tension in his jaw, the slight narrowing of those unforgettable blue-grey eyes as they swept the room. He looked like a scientist entering a particularly grubby lab.
Ms. Flores surged forward, beaming, her hand outstretched. "Mr. Thorne! Welcome! Welcome to the East End Community Center! We are so incredibly grateful—"
"Ms. Flores," Ethan acknowledged, his voice smooth, cool, devoid of inflection. He shook her hand briefly, his touch seeming reluctant. "A pleasure." His gaze was already moving past her, assessing the worn space, the carefully arranged groups of beaming children and nervous seniors. Disdain radiated from him in almost visible waves. Alex felt Marco stiffen beside him.
Amelia smoothly took over. "A brief tour, Mr. Thorne? Starting with the main hall?" She gestured, herding him forward like a prized exhibit.
The entourage moved. Ethan walked slowly, his polished shoes clicking on the linoleum. He nodded curtly as Ms. Flores pointed out the bulletin board covered in children's artwork, the donated bookshelf. He didn't touch anything. He didn't smile. His security detail hovered close, subtly discouraging anyone from approaching too near. Alex kept his eyes downcast, focusing on a particularly large crack in the floor near his feet. *Don't see me. Don't see me.*
They moved towards the newly spruced-up computer room. Ethan paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the mismatched chairs and the half-dozen elderly residents tentatively using the donated laptops under the guidance of a patient volunteer. His lip curled almost imperceptibly. "Adequate," he murmured to Amelia, just loud enough for Alex, standing near the door to help direct if needed, to hear. The word dripped with condescension.
Alex felt a hot flush creep up his neck. *Adequate?* For people who couldn't afford internet cafes? For kids who needed it for school? Anger simmered, replacing fear. Marco shifted beside him, a low growl almost escaping.
As Ethan turned to leave the computer room, his gaze swept absently across the volunteers near the door. It passed over Marco, lingered for a microsecond on Alex's downturned face, then moved on. Alex held his breath. *No recognition.* Relief warred with a strange pang of insult. Had he truly been that forgettable? Just another insignificant speck?
The tour proceeded to the small meeting room, set up with folding chairs and a rickety podium. Ethan endured the short speeches from Ms. Flores and a local council member with an air of profound boredom, checking his platinum wristwatch twice. Finally, Amelia stepped forward.
"And now," she announced, her voice bright for the cameras, "Mr. Thorne is pleased to present the Thorne Foundation's donation to the East End Community Center." She handed Ethan a large, mock-check prop. Flashbulbs popped.
Ethan held the check stiffly, facing the cameras, his smile a thin, practiced curve of the lips that didn't reach his eyes. "The Thorne Foundation," he stated, his voice devoid of warmth, "is committed to supporting vital community resources." He sounded like he was reading a particularly dull financial report. He handed the prop to a beaming Ms. Flores. "For revitalization efforts."
"Thank you, Mr. Thorne! Thank you so much!" Ms. Flores gushed, clutching the oversized check. "This means the world to us!"
Ethan gave a curt nod. "Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me..." He turned, clearly signaling the end of the ordeal, already moving towards the exit, Amelia and security falling into step.
*He's leaving. He didn't see me. It's over.* Alex sagged slightly against the wall, the breath he hadn't realized he was holding whooshing out. Marco let out a low, satisfied "Hmph."
But fate, it seemed, had other plans.
As Ethan strode down the short corridor leading back to the main hall, a door marked "Arts & Crafts" burst open. Sofia Moretti, clutching a large, wet painting of a swirling purple nebula on thick paper, backed out excitedly, talking over her shoulder to a friend inside. "Look, Maya! It's almost driED—!"
She collided squarely with Ethan Thorne.
The wet, heavy painting smacked against the pristine front of his navy suit jacket with a sickeningly familiar *splat*. Purple, blue, and glittery silver paint bloomed across the expensive fabric like an abstract galaxy.
Time froze.
Sofia gasped, her eyes wide with horror as she looked up at the towering, immaculate figure she'd just assaulted. "I-I'm so sorry! I didn't see—!"
Ethan recoiled as if scalded, looking down at the ruin of his suit with utter disbelief morphing rapidly into icy fury. His head snapped up, his glacial gaze locking not on the terrified child, but over her head, instinctively seeking the source of this new disaster.
His eyes met Alex's.
Recognition slammed into them both with the force of a physical blow. The waiter from Le Ciel. The source of the champagne deluge. Here. In this grimy community center. Staring at him with a mixture of shock, horror, and... defiance?
Ethan's mask of bored detachment shattered. Pure, unadulterated fury blazed in those blue-grey depths, colder and sharper than before. His pristine image was destroyed, *again*, by the same clumsy, insignificant—
"*You*," Ethan hissed, the single word crackling with venom, echoing in the suddenly silent corridor. His gaze, burning with rage and unmistakable recognition, pinned Alex to the spot. All the carefully constructed anonymity, all the hope of being wallpaper, evaporated in an instant, drowned in glittery purple paint. The collision course was complete.
**(End of Chapter 7)**