For a moment Ethan forgot the grand lobby of the Twilight Hotel, forgot the chandeliers gleaming above like constellations, forgot the glittering guests drifting past in gowns and tuxedos. All that existed was the woman standing before him.
Mary.
The soft glow of the lobby lights spilled across her figure, catching the sheen of her dress, the delicate shimmer of jewelry against her skin. Her perfume lingered faintly in the air between them, not overpowering but subtle, refined, a fragrance that seemed to suit her perfectly. Every line of her posture spoke of poise and wealth, yet her eyes—deep, steady, and faintly curious—were fixed on him in a way that made the world narrow.
Ethan's throat tightened. He had always been nervous in the presence of wealth. Years at St. Helens Academy had carved that fear into his bones—mockery from classmates, disdain from teachers, constant reminders that no matter how high his test scores were, he didn't belong in their world. He had spent years shrinking beneath the weight of that judgment.
And yet… standing here, in front of Mary, dressed in a suit that transformed his reflection in the mirror, the fear didn't come. There was tension, yes—a taut, unspoken charge in the silence between them—but it was strangely calming.
Ethan realized it with a jolt. He was calm.
His heartbeat was steady, not wild. His palms weren't damp with sweat. For once, he didn't feel like an imposter fumbling in borrowed skin. He felt… present.
It startled him more than her beauty.
Excuse him, then, for staring a second too long, for being just a little surprised at himself. The nervous boy from the slums of the city shouldn't have been able to stand this close to a woman who carried wealth like an aura—and yet, he was.
The silence stretched, and Mary's gaze didn't falter. If anything, she seemed to study him more closely, as though his presence intrigued her. The corners of her lips curved slightly, not a smile, but something subtler—an acknowledgement of the atmosphere between them.
Finally, Ethan drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, and broke the silence. "Mike told me… to meet you."
Her brows arched faintly, surprise flickering across her expression before it smoothed into composure. "So you're the driver?"
The word landed softly, but it still caught Ethan off guard. Something about the way she said it—not mocking, not dismissive, but with genuine surprise—made his chest tighten. He swallowed the strange knot in his throat.
"Yes," he said simply.
Mary tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as she studied him. "Really."
The way she said it wasn't disbelief, exactly. It was more like she was trying to reconcile what she saw—a tall young man with sharp features and a suit that clung to him with elegant lines—with the role of driver. Her tone carried curiosity, even a touch of intrigue, as if the puzzle didn't quite fit in her mind.
Ethan's lips pressed together. He wanted to laugh bitterly at the irony. All his life, people had looked at him and seen nothing but poverty, failure, a boy who didn't belong. Now, for the first time, someone looked at him and doubted not his worth but his humility—doubted that he could be a driver because he looked like something more.
Strange. Unfamiliar. Calming.
The silence returned, but it wasn't empty. It was charged, a subtle current flowing between them. Ethan felt it in the way her eyes lingered on him, in the faint tilt of her head, in the way the lobby noise seemed to dull around them.
He found himself staring back, caught in her gaze. He shouldn't have—he knew better. Years of being mocked had taught him to look down, to avert his eyes before the wealthy decided he was insolent. But tonight, he didn't.
And Mary didn't look away.
The longer it lasted, the thicker the air seemed to grow. A strange atmosphere settled around them—not hostile, not uncomfortable, but something else entirely. Something that made Ethan's pulse quicken without panic, that made his breath catch without fear.
It was Mary who moved first. Slowly, gracefully, she turned her head toward the front desk. "One moment," she said softly. Her voice was smooth, each word deliberate, as though she chose them carefully.
She raised her hand slightly, a subtle signal. One of the receptionists hurried over, posture straight, eyes attentive. Mary leaned close, speaking in a voice too low for Ethan to hear. The receptionist nodded quickly, bowing before scurrying away, clearly eager to obey.
Ethan stood quietly, forcing his posture to remain calm. Inside, his thoughts spun.
This was the mission. This woman, this hotel, this moment—it was all tied to the system's card. Yet Mary seemed utterly unaware of the invisible strings pulling them together. To her, he was a driver. To him, she was a figure wrapped in mystery, beauty, and power.
And yet between them, in that brief silence, something else had sparked.
Ethan didn't know what it was, only that it left his chest feeling lighter and heavier all at once.
Mary straightened, turning her eyes back to him. They lingered again, steady, unreadable. For a moment, it felt like she was about to say something—something personal, something not rehearsed or professional. But then footsteps approached, interrupting the moment, and her expression smoothed once more into calm composure.
Ethan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Whatever this night held, it had only just begun.
As the lobby of the Twilight Hotel hummed with soft music and murmured voices, but for Ethan it felt as though the world had shrunk to a single point—Mary standing before him, her gaze steady and unflinching.
Time stretched. The moment had a weight to it, as though invisible threads tethered them together, pulling the air tighter with each second of silence. Ethan shifted slightly, fighting the urge to glance away. He had been trained by years of mockery at St. Helens to lower his eyes, to make himself small, to never give the wealthy the satisfaction of calling him insolent. Yet now, he held Mary's gaze, and she didn't look away.
The soft click of heels broke the tension. One of the receptionists approached, her posture stiff with formality. In her hand gleamed a small brass key, hanging from a dark leather fob embossed with the Twilight Hotel's crest. She offered it wordlessly to Mary, bowing her head.
Mary took it with elegant ease, then turned back to Ethan. Her hand extended, palm open, the key resting against her slender fingers. The gesture was simple, but the moment it bridged between them seemed to crackle with meaning.
"This is for you," she said.
Ethan hesitated before reaching out. His fingers brushed lightly against hers as he took the key, the cold brass biting into his palm. Her touch lingered for the briefest second, enough to send a ripple through him.
Her eyes didn't leave his. "You'll drive me to my friend's party tonight. Understood?"
Ethan's throat tightened. He swallowed once, then nodded. "Yes."
The word came easily, but inside, memories stirred. He had driven before—old sedans, delivery vans, even the rickety car of his late father when his mother had been too sick to get to the hospital. Driving had been one of the many odd jobs he'd taken to keep the bills at bay, to keep his sister in school when the weight of poverty threatened to crush them. It was nothing new. And yet, spoken here, in the heart of luxury, it felt different.
For a moment, silence returned, but it wasn't the same as before. This one was heavier, closer. Mary's eyes lingered on him, searching, questioning, though her lips didn't move. Then, slowly, she stepped closer.
Ethan's breath caught. She was near enough now that he could catch the faint scent of her perfume—jasmine and something richer, something warmer. Her dress brushed lightly as she moved, silk shifting against silk.
She tilted her head, her eyes locking with his. The world blurred at the edges, narrowing again to just the two of them. The space between them was measured in inches now. Ethan could swear he could see beneath the fabric of her dress where it dipped, a faint suggestion of pale skin, and he froze, heat rising unbidden in his chest.
Mary, too, seemed startled by her own action. She wasn't the kind of woman who allowed men close. That much was clear in the way she carried herself—aloof, guarded, accustomed to fending off stares and advances with icy precision. Men wanted her body, her wealth, her status. She hated them for it.
But here she was, standing closer to Ethan than she should have, her fingers lingering a moment too long when she pressed the key into his palm.
She didn't understand why.
Her chest rose and fell with a faint, controlled breath, but in her eyes flickered something she rarely allowed—uncertainty. She studied him, his jawline, his suit, his dark eyes that looked back at her not with hunger, not with arrogance, but with something quieter.
Something that unsettled her.
The air between them thickened. Ethan's heart pounded, but he stood his ground, every muscle taut, his mind screaming that this was a mistake, that he had no right to be here. Yet the system had pushed him into this place, this role, this moment. And somehow, impossibly, it didn't feel wrong.
The spell broke with a sharp sound.
A cough. Loud, deliberate.
Both of them turned slightly. The receptionist who had delivered the key stood stiffly behind the desk, her eyes downcast but her meaning clear. She had seen enough, and her disapproval was heavy in the air. The lobby wasn't a place for private intimacies, especially not between someone like Mary and a man she had introduced as a driver.
Mary's expression shifted in an instant. The faint flicker of uncertainty vanished, replaced with composure. She straightened, stepping back with a grace that masked the closeness from moments before. Her voice, when she spoke again, was smooth and professional.
"Wait here," she said simply. "I need to change."
Ethan nodded once. "Of course." His voice was quiet, controlled, though his chest still thudded with the aftershocks of their closeness.
Mary gave him one last glance—brief, unreadable—before turning away. Her heels clicked against the marble as she walked, her dress flowing like liquid shadow behind her. Heads turned subtly as she passed, drawn by her beauty, her presence. But Ethan saw something else, something no one else in the lobby could see: the faint hesitation in her step, the tiniest flicker of conflict in her shoulders.
She disappeared around a corner, leaving Ethan standing in the lobby with the key heavy in his hand.
The atmosphere that had wrapped around them dissipated slowly, like smoke fading from the air. Yet it lingered faintly in Ethan's chest, a tension he couldn't name.
He looked down at the key, the brass gleaming in the golden light.
The mission had brought him here. The system had forced him into this role. But already, he felt the path shifting. Mary wasn't just a figure in the mission's outline. She was something more—something unpredictable, something he couldn't control.
He clenched his fist around the key, steadying himself.
Whatever tonight held, he would face it.