Chapter 2
Viola couldn't stop thinking about the man from last night. That smug confidence. That infuriating grin. The audacity to pay her bill without even knowing her name.
She stirred her coffee aggressively, watching the froth swirl like a storm.
You don't know me. And you won't, she told herself for the fifth time that morning.
She'd seen men like him before—rich, arrogant, powerful. The kind who wanted control. Viola had spent twenty years under a man's thumb, smiling politely while being emotionally starved.
Never again.
Her fingers slammed the keyboard, typing with a fury that made the laptop quake beneath her touch. Her romance manuscript grew darker with every paragraph. Her heroine didn't fall for the rich stranger.
She stabbed him with a hairpin and stole his wallet. Now that's a plot twist.
Mack was already awake before the sun had a chance to yawn.
Shirtless in his high-rise penthouse, he stared out the floor-to-ceiling glass at the city below. Espresso in one hand. Phone in the other. Viola's contact details sat on his screen like a locked door, daring him to pick the lock.
"Viola," he muttered as the name weighed on his tongue. "You think you scare me?"
No woman had ever turned her back on him like that. No one dared. And that made her dangerous.
He liked danger.
Hyde stepped into the room, fresh from the gym. "So? You calling her?"
Mack didn't answer. He slid the phone into his pocket and pulled a shirt over his muscular frame.
"She's not the kind of woman you call," he said flatly. "She's the kind you find."
Viola left the restaurant early that night. Sam teased her about her "mood," but Viola brushed it off with a sarcastic smile and a middle finger.
She needed air.
The streets were cooler than usual, a breeze teasing the curls she'd failed to tame. Part of her regretted not bringing a jacket. The other part enjoyed the cold. It made her feel alive.
She passed the flower vendor on 3rd Street, ignoring the roses. The romance was a lie—wrapped in petals and perfume.
Until she saw him.
Standing across the road. Leaning against a sleek black car like it belonged to a Bond villain. Eyes locked on her. No hesitation. No shame.
Her pulse kicked. She didn't move. Didn't breathe.
He crossed the street slowly, one confident step at a time. Like he had all the time in the world—and knew she wasn't going anywhere.
When he was close enough to smell—clean soap, leather, and something dangerous—he finally spoke.
"You stormed out last night before I could thank you for your... donation," Mack said, his voice edged with a smirk.
Viola raised a brow. "And you came all the way here to return twenty bucks?"
"No," he said, low and smooth. "I came because you didn't say thank you."
She laughed once, sharp. "Let me guess—you're not used to rejection."
"I'm not used to women walking away."
"I'm not like your women."
"I know."
There it was again—that electricity. Thick and silent, humming between them like a live wire.
He looked at her like he could already see what she wore under her clothes. Not with lust. With intent. Like he was planning his next move on a chessboard she didn't even realize she was standing on.
"You're bold," she said, folding her arms. "That's dangerous in this city."
"So am I."
She stepped in, just close enough. Close enough for her scent—lavender and something wild—to wrap around him.
"You should walk away, Mack."
"Why?"
"Because I don't need saving. I don't need romance. I don't need... you."
"But what if I need you?"
That stunned her.
Long enough for him to tuck a card into her palm, his fingers brushing hers—a spark that ignited nerve endings and ran straight down her spine.
"Dinner. Tomorrow. If you're brave enough," he said, then turned and walked away without waiting for an answer.
Viola stared after him. Breathless. Angry.And worst of all—curious.
She walked faster than necessary, boots striking the pavement in clipped, purposeful steps. The cool air didn't help. Her skin still buzzed from the way he'd stood close. Too close.
The nerve of him.The gall.The way her stomach had flipped like a schoolgirl's.
No. Not happening.
She forced herself to think about her manuscript. Her deadlines. The promise she made to herself never to fall for charm wrapped in arrogance again.
She was done with dangerous men. Done with swagger.Done with... dark eyes and glocks and smirks that made her want to scream and moan at the same time.
Still, her fingers curled around the card in her pocket.
She stopped mid-step.
No.
She pulled the card out and held it between two fingers, staring at the number as if it might burn her.
Then, with the resolve of a woman who knew better, she dropped it into the nearest trash can.
And kept walking.
Mack watched her through the café window. He saw the hesitation. He saw the way she clutched the card like it meant something—because it did.
Then she dropped it in the trash.
He didn't smile.
He liked a challenge, sure. But Viola wasn't just a game.
She was a storm. And storms weren't tamed. They were chased.
He stood there for a second longer, then pulled out his phone and sent a message:
To: Hyde. She threw it out. Get her a new one. Same number. Different design. Put it in her mailbox by tonight."
A minute later, a thumbs-up emoji and a location pin appeared on his screen.
Mack tucked the phone into his coat, straightened his collar, and left the café with quiet confidence.
She might fight him. But she'd never forget him.