Prologue: The First Meeting

The First Meeting

Chad Blackstone sat in his office, gripping the edge of his desk as Peter, his trusted assistant, stood nearby. The news had hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Ava Reeds is back in town,” Peter said cautiously, watching his boss for a reaction.

Chad’s jaw tightened. “Why now?” he muttered, his voice low and tense. “After three years... Why the hell would she come back?”

Peter shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure, but word is she’s attending some high-profile events. The media’s already buzzing about her return.”

Ava. His Ava. The woman he’d once thought he’d spend his life with. The woman who’d left him broken and humiliated.

Why? His chest tightened, anger and something far more bitter swirling within him. Three years. It had been three years since she’d vanished from his life without an explanation, taking his trust and his heart with her.

His mind drifted to the past, no matter how much he fought against it. Ava. His childhood sweetheart. The girl he’d once thought was his forever.

He had loved her with everything he had. He’d stood by her side through every storm, defended her even when she was wrong, and sacrificed his own needs just to see her smile. She’d been his world, and he’d been blind to the signs that she didn’t feel the same.

He’d built her up in the modeling world, using his connections to ensure her success. He’d sent her gifts, flowers, and countless messages of support, thinking it was enough to show her how much she meant to him. But she’d slowly pulled away, claiming she was busy, that work was consuming her. He’d believed her, made excuses for her.

Until that night.

The night he’d planned to propose. He’d reserved an entire restaurant, decorated it to perfection, called musicians to create the right atmosphere. It was supposed to be their moment, the start of a new chapter.

But she never came.

He waited for hours, calling her repeatedly, each ring going to voicemail. When he’d finally reached out to her manager, he’d learned the truth. Ava wasn’t busy. She hadn’t been busy for months. She’d been lying to him, sneaking around behind his back.

And when Peter brought him proof—photos of her with another man, one of the top models in her industry—it had shattered him.

She hadn’t just abandoned him. She’d humiliated him.

Chad clenched his fists at the memory. He’d walked away from that restaurant, leaving behind everything he’d arranged to make her happy. The staff, the musicians, the flowers—all of it meaningless now.

She hadn’t even called to explain, to apologize. Days later, she’d left the country with her lover.

Three years. And now she was back.

The slight cough from his assistant pulled him from his thoughts. Peter stood there, hesitant but concerned.

“Sir?”

Chad exhaled heavily, rising from his chair. “I need air.”

Without another word, he strode past Peter, who quickly followed him to the car.

The car drove along the busy streets as Peter focused on the road. Chad leaned back in his seat, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest.

As they drove past one of the well-known hospitals in town, Chad's attention was drawn to a scene. He signaled Peter to stop the car as he watched.

Outside the hospital entrance, chaos reigned. Patients milled about, doctors hurried between emergencies, and people paced nervously. Chad leaned back in the plush leather seat, observing the commotion with rare interest.

"Mr. Blackstone, we're running late for the next meeting," Peter reminded him from the front seat, his voice efficient but nervous.

Chad waved him off, his sharp eyes locked on the scene outside. It wasn’t the hospital’s chaos that intrigued him—it was the woman.

She stood by the curb, poised yet combative, a tipped-over bicycle with a bright red frame lying beside her. Opposite her, a woman clutched a boy, her face twisted into an exaggerated scowl. A small crowd had gathered, drawn to the commotion like moths to a flame.

"You hit my son!" the woman shrieked, pointing an accusatory finger at the brunette. "You were riding recklessly! Look at him, he's hurt!"

The boy sniffled half-heartedly, rubbing at his dry eyes as if summoning tears that wouldn’t come.

The brunette stood calm, her arms crossed and chin slightly raised. Amusement flickered across her face, as though the situation was more entertaining than irritating.

“Your son?" she asked, her voice clear and sharp. "The one standing there looking just fine?" She pointed at the boy, arching a brow. "Maybe you should sign him up for acting classes."

A few snickers rippled through the crowd, and the woman’s face flushed with anger.

The brunette remained unfazed. "For the record," she continued, brushing off her sleeve, "I was riding at a snail’s pace. Your son jumped in front of my bicycle. If anyone owes an apology, it’s you—for not teaching your child to look both ways before running into the street."

The murmurs in the crowd grew louder, some in agreement, others wary of the brunette's sharp tongue.

The angry woman scowled and turned to the crowd. "People like her are always trying to scam decent folks! She needs to pay for what she has done" The woman shot back, appealing to the crowd now.

"Pay?" The brunette tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips. "Should we discuss that? Because your son damaged my bicycle. Are you planning to cover the cost?"

The woman faltered, thrown off by the counterattack.

“And then there’s the matter of public slander,” the brunette added, her tone dangerously sweet. “Accusing me without evidence? That could get you into serious trouble.”

The crowd shifted, their murmurs growing louder.

The woman’s confidence cracked, but she wasn’t ready to back down. “Are you calling me a liar?”

“Oh no,” the brunette replied smoothly, her smile sharpening. “I’m calling you a con artist. Big difference. Though in your case, both apply.” Her eyes widened in mock surprise, and she exclaimed loudly, “Oh! It’s the festive season—time to get money for chickens, isn’t it?”

The crowd burst out laughing. The woman’s face turned beet red as the boy tugged at her sleeve, muttering something Chad couldn’t hear.

The brunette took a step closer, her voice dropping low enough for only the woman to hear. "You picked the wrong target. Take your son and leave before someone calls the police to investigate your little act."

That was all it took. The woman grabbed her son’s arm and hurried away, her dignity left in tatters.

The brunette straightened her posture, dusted off her bicycle, and turned to address the crowd.

“Well,” she said lightly, “that was a waste of time. Shall we all get back to our lives now?”

A spatter of applause broke out, followed by nods of approval. She smiled—a calm, confident expression that could’ve belonged to a queen surveying her kingdom.

Then, as she turned to leave, her gaze swept past Chad’s car.

Their eyes met—just for a brief moment, no longer than a heartbeat. Her gaze lingered slightly, indifferent yet striking, before she turned away.

She mounted her bicycle, adjusted the strap of her bag, and pedaled off, her figure shrinking into the distance.

Chad leaned back, a faint chuckle escaping his lips.

"Peter," he said, breaking the silence.

“Yes, sir?” Peter asked, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

“I want to know everything about her.”

Peter blinked, his confusion obvious. “Sir?”

“You heard me,” Chad repeated firmly. “Her name, where she lives, where she works—everything. I want a full report by tomorrow.”

Peter hesitated but nodded. “Yes, sir.”

As the car moved back into traffic, Chad’s thoughts stayed with her. Most women he encountered were eager for his approval, but not this one. She was sharp, composed, and unapologetically bold.

“A fighter,” Chad murmured, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Well, fire lady, I wasn’t even looking for you, but it seems I’ve found something... perfect.”

His eyes glinted coldly as he gazed out the window. "We’ll be meeting again soon.”