Liana's POV

I decided to get some food before heading home.

The grocery store was bright, and it smelled like freshly baked bread and antiseptic cleaner that made me wrinkle my nose.

The automatic doors whooshed open with a puff of warm air laced with the sweet, yeasty scent of in-store bakery, fresh loaves cooling under heat lamps, cut by the sharp tang of floor polish and chilled produce mist. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright after the dimming streets, casting long shadows down the wide aisles lined with bright packaging.

I pushed a cart down the narrow aisles, the boxes of cereal tagged with, “Buy one, get one free!” I wanted to throw a box at the nearest shelf. Lies.

The wheels squeaked faintly on the linoleum, still slick from the day's foot traffic and a recent mop. Promotional signs dangled overhead, fluttering slightly in the recycled air from the vents—red banners promising deals that always felt like traps.

I remember when I bought one and was still charged for the other.

I grabbed pasta, tomatoes, eggs, frozen chicken, and some fresh produce.

I noticed the slight stickiness of the floor where someone had spilled juice. My mind wandered: the office, the tension, I shook my head as if to physically knock away the memory.

The spill left a faint orange sheen under the lights, tacky under my shoe soles. A toddler in the next aisle wailed briefly, quickly hushed; the sound echoed off the high ceilings, mixing with the low hum of fridges and distant trolley rattles.

I walked past the lemonade powder box, the brand I liked. It came in strawberry now. My hand hovered. Should I take it? It’s not healthy.

I should take it. I shouldn’t. I argued silently with myself before grabbing two boxes.

The boxes felt lightweight, crinkling under my fingers; the artificial strawberry scent wafted up faintly when I shook one, sweet and chemical, promising comfort.

As I continued shopping, I noticed a couple quietly arguing over bread near the bakery. The man gestured wildly with a baguette; the woman shook her head, a kid chasing a cart, the soft clatter of cans falling in a basket. I focused on the normalcy of it all, trying to anchor myself.

The bakery section glowed warmer, heat lamps humming softly; the argument carried low, tense murmurs—ordinary frustration that felt worlds away from my own secrets.

A man walked past, everything in his cart green, apples, lettuce, broccoli. He was one of those people who’d make you feel guilty for eating a chocolate bar. I shot him a glare that he definitely did not notice.

His cart rattled past, wheels steady; the crisp snap of fresh leaves brushing against each other as he turned the corner. My own cart felt heavier suddenly, loaded with small rebellions.

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

The stress from the office clinging to my shoulders.

“Ohhh,” I gasped as I grabbed three boxes of pancake mix. Excitement mingled with relief. The ordinary act of shopping felt like a small victory.

The pancake boxes stacked neatly, cardboard cool against my palms.

My phone rang as I reached for a carton of milk.

Mum.

Of course.

I answered before she could hang up again. “Hi, Mother.”

“Liana,” she said immediately, voice sharp with irritation. “That dog is back.”

I smiled despite myself. “Which dog?”

“You know which dog. That woman two houses down, the one with the awful red hair and no manners. Her dog keeps coming into my garden and doing its business.”

Her words tumbled out familiar, unchanged—like stepping back into a well-worn conversation from before everything shattered. The store noise faded slightly; I could almost smell her kitchen tea brewing on the other end.

I closed my eyes. Same complaint. Different timeline. Different life.

“Mum,” I said gently, "I don't think dogs don’t understand where they are and they're not supposed to go.”

“Well, she does,” Mum snapped. “And yet here I am, cleaning up after an animal that isn’t mine. Again.”

I steered my cart toward the checkout, listening as she vented like someone who was personally wronged.

“You should talk to her,” I suggested.

“I did,” Mum said. “She said it wasn’t her dog.”

“Is it her dog?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is her dog.”

“Exactly!” Mum said triumphantly. “Finally, someone with sense.”

I laughed quietly, earning a curious look from the cashier. For a moment, everything felt better, normal.

The cashier's scanner beeped rhythmically—beep, beep—as items slid across; the plastic bags rustled, and the faint scent of rain clung to my coat from outside.

“How are you, sweetheart?” Mum asked, suspicion creeping in her voice.

“You sound tired.”

“I’m fine,” I lied smoothly. “Just work.”

She hummed. “You always say that. Don’t let them take advantage of you.”

The words landed heavier than she knew.

I promised myself I wouldn’t. I couldn’t afford to.

We hung up shortly after. Mum was still muttering about the woman in her book club whose daughter had come home pregnant. She is in college.

I paid for my groceries and stepped back into the cold London evening, bags cutting into my palms.

The doors whooshed shut behind me; outside air hit sharp and damp, carrying the wet-earth smell of recent rain and distant exhaust. Streetlights reflected in shallow puddles, orange halos shimmering.

The streets glistened from the afternoon rain.

Streetlights flickered one by one. A taxi sped past, drowning out the faint sound of a street musician playing a battered guitar.

Music from nearby apartments drifted down the street.

I forced my mind back to the present, resisting the urge to dwell on last night, on him.

Back in my flat, I unpacked slowly. Put the pasta into the cupboard, placed the tomatoes into the fridge, and arranged everything in their rightful place.

The fridge door sucked shut with a soft pop; cold air brushed my face as I slotted items in neat rows.

I washed my hands after I was done. I noticed the leftover pasta salad and garlic bread in the fridge. I popped it in the microwave and watched a reunion show while I ate, half-listening, half-lost in thought.

Then my mind betrayed me. Raphael.

His name slid into my thoughts uninvited. The way he said mine. The way he watched without making me uncomfortable.

One night doesn’t mean anything.

Still… curiosity got the best of me.

I leaned over to the center table, grabbed my laptop, and opened it, telling myself this was nothing.

I typed into the search bar.

Raphael.

I stared at it, then snorted softly. That’s absurd.

This is pointless.

I hit search anyway.

The results were exactly what I expected. Random profiles. A sculptor in Italy. A dentist in Manchester. A fitness influencer who definitely skips leg day. Lawyers. Men with gym selfies and motivational quotes.

See? Nothing.

Then my eyes caught it.

A small panel on the right side of the screen.

Famous people named Raphael. I frowned. Curiosity pricked at the edge of my thoughts.

I clicked.

The page loaded slowly, and for half a second, I was annoyed at myself for even entertaining this.

Then his face appeared.

Sharp jaw. Jet black hair. Hazel eyes I recognized instantly.

The same calm, controlled expression. The same man who watched me like a piece of art.

My breath left me in a single, stunned exhale.

Raphael Blackthorne.

My jaw dropped. And the bread in my mouth fall out.

The name sank in like ice water.

CEO and Founder of Oraion Technologies.

Industry: Cybersecurity.

Headquarters: London.

Oraion. Blaise Corps’ biggest rival.

Liana's POV

I didn't sleep.

Not properly.

I lay on my back staring at the ceiling, watching headlights from passing cars crawl across the cracks like slow-moving insects. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain replayed headlines, and Raphael Blackthorne's face was calm, unreadable, and dangerous.

His touch ghosted over my skin, phantom heat that wouldn't fade. Shame burned hotter than fear: I'd let the enemy in, literally, and now the memory was fraying at the edges like cheap paper.

By morning, exhaustion had settled into my bones.

I dressed mechanically. Black trousers. White blouse. Hair twisted into a bun so tight it pulled at my scalp. Armor. That's what clothes are now.

At Blaise Corps, the air felt heavier than usual.

The lobby screens flickered through performance metrics and smiling stock photos.

I scoffed.

Lucy waved the moment she saw me.

"There you are," she chirped, falling into step beside me. "You look wiped. Late night?"

I forced a yawn. "Something like that."

Her eyes lingered on my face a second too long.

We reached the elevators. Brian slid in just before the doors closed, breathless, with his tie crooked.

"Morning, ladies."

His gaze snagged on me and stayed there.

I didn't look back.

As the lift ascended, Lucy leaned closer. "Graham's been asking questions already."

My pulse ticked up. "About?"

She shrugged. "Permissions. Access hierarchies. He mentioned your name."

Again.

I smiled thinly. "I'm flattered."

Lucy laughed. Brian didn't.

On our floor, the office buzzed with tension. IT staff hovered near the server room. Graham's glass office door was shut. That was never a good sign.

I logged in and went straight to work.

The discrepancy from yesterday was still there, buried deep, timestamped wrong by milliseconds. Sloppy if you knew what to look for.

I started mapping access patterns.

Someone had been piggybacking credentials. Short bursts. Off-hours. Always routed cleanly enough to point back at me if anyone followed the trail.

Clever.

But they'd underestimated one thing.

Me.

I built a shadow protocol beneath my usual workflow. Nothing flashy. No alarms. Just mirrored processes and silent flags that logged everything twice, once where the system expected it, and once where only I knew to look.

If someone touched my files again, I'd see it.

A shadow moved in my peripheral vision.

Brian.

"You're intense today," he said lightly. "Everything okay?"

I didn't look up. "Just working."

"You always say that." He leaned on my desk. Too close. "Lucy's worried."

That made me glance up.

"She didn't say that to me."

He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "She didn't have to."

I straightened in my chair. "Brian, if you have something to say, say it."

He hesitated. A flicker of something, nerves, maybe guilt, passed over his face.

"Nothing," he said. "I'm just looking out for you.."

Then he walked away.

At ten-thirty, Graham summoned me.

Again.

His office smelled faintly of cologne and stale coffee. He didn't offer me a seat.

"I've reviewed your recent access activity," he said, fingers steepled. "You've been busy."

"Doing my job," I replied evenly.

He smiled. It was thin.

When I stepped out of his office, my hands were shaking.

I exhaled and walked back to my seat.

I barely sat before my phone buzzed-a sharp vibration against my thigh like a warning shot.

Unknown number.

Hello!-R

My thumb froze. Before I could reply, another buzz-same number.

Did you get it?

My breath caught.

Before I could process, a courier stepped onto our floor, scanning desks until his eyes landed on me. He walked over, holding a long black box like it contained something fragile.

"Liana Bennett?" he asked.

Every head in the office lifted.

"Yes," I said slowly.

He handed it to me and left without another word.

The box was heavier than it looked.

Lucy appeared at my side almost instantly. "Oh my God," she breathed. "Who's the lucky guy?"

I didn't answer.

I hadn't moved yet.

The box was matte black, no logo, no brand name. Just a slim silver ribbon tied neatly.

I opened it.

White lilies.

Perfect. Pristine. Not a single petal bruised.

The scent rose clean and overpowering white flowers that symbolized purity, rebirth, second chances. In my flat they would have felt hopeful. Here, on my desk surrounded by enemies, they felt like a blade wrapped in silk.

The card rested between the stems.

I hesitated, then picked it up.

No name.

Just four words, written in precise, elegant print.

Hello! Hope you're good?

My fingers curled slightly around the card.

Lucy squealed. "That's so romantic! Do you have a secret admirer?"

Around us, people murmured. Brian stared at the flowers like they'd personally offended him.

Graham glanced out of his glass office, eyes narrowing before he turned away again.

I forced a smile. "Looks like it."

But my pulse had started to race.

I slid the card back into the box and pushed it aside, pretending to admire the arrangement while my mind sprinted ahead.

The lilies stared back, innocent white against the black box. But innocence was a lie I'd learned the hard way. Someone was watching. Close. Too close.

Lunch came and went. I didn't eat.

Lucy tried to coax me out. Curry. Laughter. Normalcy.

I declined.

By mid-afternoon, the trap was set.

I seeded a file, nothing incriminating on the surface. Just a little trap.

Across the office, Lucy was on her phone again, smiling too brightly. Brian paced near IT. Graham hadn't emerged once since the delivery.

Everything felt... tightened. Like a noose being adjusted millimeter by millimeter.

By the time work ended, the flowers were still on my desk.

I debated leaving them behind.

I didn't.

Outside, London was damp and grey, the air thick with rain. I carried the box home like contraband, every step echoing louder than it should.

In my flat, I set the flowers on the kitchen counter and stared at them.

They didn't belong here.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown Number.

The screen lit my face in the dim kitchen. My thumb hovered over the message.

The message loaded.

Did you get it?

Then, before I could breathe another photo attached: me, leaving the hotel at dawn, rain in my hair, coat clutched tight. Shot from across the street. Someone had been there.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Raphael's POV

The penthouse felt too large at 3:17 a.m.

London glittered below the glass wall, rain-smeared roads, the Thames a black mirror catching tower lights. I stood with my back to the view, tumbler in hand, ice long gone. The whisky sat untouched on my tongue; it couldn't burn away the loop in my head.

Liana.

I didn't even know her last name until this afternoon.

One night. One reckless, perfect night in a Shoreditch bar that smelled of spilled gin and wet coats. She'd claimed the end stool like she owned the shadows, auburn hair escaping a bun, whiskey eyes scanning the room with the quiet wariness of someone who'd learned not to trust easy smiles.

I'd noticed her the second she walked in.

Not because she was beautiful, though she was, in that sharp, unpolished way that hits harder than perfection. I noticed her because she looked like someone carrying something heavy and refusing to let it show. Shoulders squared. Chin up. A small, private smile when the bartender made a dry joke. She laughed once, it was low, surprised, like she hadn't expected to and the sound cut straight through the noise.

I should have stayed at the bar and minded my own business.

Instead I moved closer.

"Mind if I join you?"

She'd raised an eyebrow. "It depends. Why are you here?"

I'd told her the truth: bored, curious, drawn to the woman hiding in the corner even though she insisted she wasn't.

She hadn't laughed in my face. She'd let me stay.

Conversation had come easy-too easy. Music, London secrets, the absurdity of corporate life. She was quick, sarcastic, flirty in a way that felt like a challenge rather than an invitation. Every time she leaned in to speak over the music, her breath brushed my ear, warm and faintly gin-sweet. I'd forgotten the time, the crowd, everything except the way her eyes lit when she let her guard slip for half a second.

When she'd said yes to leaving the bar, I hadn't questioned it. I'd just taken her hand small, cool from the rain and led her through the wet streets to the hotel around the corner.

The room had smelled of clean sheets and expensive soap. She'd kissed me like she was starving, like the night was the only thing keeping something worse at bay. I'd matched her hunger, careful not to push past where she led. Her nails on my back. She gasped when I found the spot below her ear. The way she'd whispered my name like a question and then like an answer.

It was dangerously perfect and she left before dawn.

She'd left a note on the hotel pad: "Thanks."

No number. No promise of more.

Just "Thanks" and the faint imprint of her perfume on the pillow.

I'd stared at it for longer than I'd admit.

By noon the next day I'd found her.

Not through hacking or surveillance-nothing that dramatic. A quick search on LinkedIn for "Liana" + "data analyst" + "London" + a few keywords from our conversation (spreadsheets, corporate mundanity, sarcastic humor). Her profile was sparse, professional photo, Blaise Corps badge. Liana Bennett.

I could have stopped there.

I didn't.

I'd sent the first message because I didn't want to scare her. " Hello!"

No reply.

I'd sent flowers.

White lilies-clean, elegant, no over-the-top roses. A card with the safest thing I could think of: "Hello! Hope you're good?"

I wanted her to know it wasn't a one-night thing for me.

I wanted her to feel seen.

Now it was past three in the morning and my phone sat silent on the coffee table.

Jackson had confirmed the delivery at 11:17 a.m. She'd opened the box in the office. Half the floor had stared. She'd carried them home instead of leaving them behind.

That small detail kept replaying.

She hadn't thrown them away.

She hadn't left them for someone else to claim.

She'd taken them with her.

I crossed to the bar cart, poured another finger of whisky. The liquid caught the low light, amber refracting gold.

I opened the phone again. The photo I'd taken. The one I pulled from a street cam feed I'd accessed, Her leaving the hotel at dawn: coat clutched against the rain, head down, auburn strands escaping the bun. Alone. Beautiful.

Sending it would be a mistake.

Too intense. Too soon.

Was it creepy?

But the silence was louder than any reply.

I thumbed the screen.

Message sent.

Then the photo.

My heart gave one hard thud.

I set the phone face-down and returned to the window.

Somewhere in Hackney, Liana Bennett was looking at her screen.

Seeing the flowers on her counter.

Reading "Did you get it?"

Opening the attachment.

Seeing herself captured in the rain, unaware.

She'd either block me, delete everything, and disappear from my life forever...

...or she'd answer.

And if she answered-if she let me in even a fraction, I'd spend every day proving I was worth the risk.

I lifted the glass in a silent toast to the dark city.

To the woman who'd walked away without looking back.

Come on, Liana.

Talk to me.