Chapter Four — The Unexpected Encounter

Dianne adjusted her sunglasses and pulled her coat tighter around her frame as she walked down the crowded London street. The chill in the air bit at her skin, but it was nothing compared to the cold stares she’d been getting lately.

It had been two weeks since her world fell apart. Two weeks since Damian’s betrayal. Two weeks since she’d screamed at the man who’d unknowingly ruined her life.

She thought a quick trip to the grocery store would help clear her mind, but every whispered conversation, every flash of a camera from some lurking blogger felt like a blade to her chest.

“Keep your head up, Dianne,” she muttered under her breath. “You’ve been through worse. You can do this.”

She was halfway across the parking lot when it happened.

“Watch where you’re going!”

The voice was deep, firm — and painfully familiar.

Her breath caught in her throat. Slowly, she looked up — straight into those piercing gray eyes she’d hoped never to see again.

Roy Sinclair.

He stood there in an expensive charcoal suit, one hand in his pocket, the other clutching a coffee cup he’d just spilled slightly on his sleeve. He looked annoyingly perfect, like a man who never had to deal with consequences.

“Of all the people in London,” she muttered bitterly.

Roy’s lips curved into that same arrogant smirk. “You again,” he said dryly. “What a surprise. Do you make a habit of running into me, or is this fate’s way of teasing me?”

Dianne scoffed. “Fate? Please. If fate had a sense of humor, you’d be far away from me.”

He chuckled, brushing a drop of coffee off his cuff. “Still feisty, I see. I almost missed that tone.”

“Missed?” Her voice rose slightly. “You destroyed my life, Mr. Sinclair. You don’t get to miss anything about me.”

Roy’s smirk faded. “Destroyed your life? You make it sound as if I planned that night. I told you before — I mistook you for someone else.”

“Yeah, a sex worker,” she shot back, bitterness thick in her tone. “How noble of you.”

He sighed, his jaw tightening. “You keep bringing that up like I’m proud of it. I’m not. I was drunk. You were drunk. We both made a mistake.”

Her eyes flashed. “A mistake that cost me my fiancé, my dignity, and my peace! But of course, for a man like you, it’s just another night.”

Roy stepped closer, his expression hardening. “Don’t pretend you know anything about me, Dianne.”

“Oh, I know enough,” she spat, refusing to step back. “You’re arrogant, entitled, and think the world spins because of your name. Men like you think money erases guilt.”

He stared at her for a long moment, eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a firm line. Then, softly, almost too softly, he said, “You’re wrong.”

Her heart skipped. For a fleeting second, she saw something in his eyes — something raw, human, and almost… regretful. But then it was gone, replaced by that familiar wall of indifference.

Roy took a step back and cleared his throat. “Look, I didn’t come here to argue. I just wanted to make things right — or as right as they can be.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Make things right? You can’t fix what’s already destroyed.”

He ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. “You don’t even know me, yet you’ve already decided I’m the villain. Fine. Believe what you want.”

He turned to leave, but something in Dianne snapped.

“Why do you even care?” she blurted. “You said it yourself — it was a mistake. So why show up at my door? Why talk about fixing things? Why even—”

Roy turned sharply, his voice low and intense. “Because you got under my skin, damn it!”

Her words caught in her throat. His confession hung between them, heavy and unexpected.

Roy’s eyes darkened, his voice rougher now. “I don’t know why, but I can’t get you out of my head. Every time I try to move on, I see your face — angry, hurt, strong. You haunt me, Dianne.”

She blinked, stunned into silence. Her chest tightened, her pulse quickened.

He exhaled, shaking his head as if trying to dismiss his own words. “Forget it. You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

“You’re right,” she said quietly, her voice trembling despite her best effort. “I don’t.”

Roy’s lips twitched — not quite a smirk, not quite a frown. “Figures.”

He adjusted his cufflinks, his tone shifting back to that cold composure. “Take care of yourself, Dianne. The city’s cruel to women who bleed in public.”

Her eyes widened slightly at the subtle sting of his words. Before she could retort, he was already walking away, his tall frame disappearing into the crowd.

She stood there, speechless, watching him go.

Part of her wanted to scream at him again. Another part wanted to run after him and demand what he meant. But she didn’t move. She just stood there, trembling, torn between fury and something far more dangerous — curiosity.

As she turned back toward her car, her heart whispered what her pride refused to admit:

Why does he affect me like this?

When Dianne got back home, she hurriedly freshened up — a quick shower, a splash of perfume, a dab of nude gloss — trying to wash off the chaotic encounter from her skin and her mind. She had a meeting scheduled with a potential client, one that could finally steady her dwindling career as a public relations consultant.

“Pull yourself together, Dianne,” she murmured to her reflection, adjusting her blazer. “You’re not broken, you’re bruised. And bruises heal.”

Traffic was terrible, as usual, but she made it to the elegant restaurant just in time. The air smelled of roasted coffee and power — the scent of deals being made and egos being polished.

She took a deep breath and walked in, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Just as she reached for her phone to confirm the client’s table number, she felt a presence behind her — tall, familiar, annoyingly confident.

“Dianne.”

Her heart sank. She froze. Slowly, she turned, and her eyes widened.

Him again.

Roy stood there, immaculate as always, that same frustrating half-smirk tugging at his lips.

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Are you stalking me?” she blurted out, her tone sharp enough to draw glances from nearby tables. “Gosh, I need to call the cops on you.”

He raised his hands slightly, a small amused curve playing on his mouth. “Relax, sweetheart. London’s big enough for coincidences.”

“Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me,” she snapped, glaring. “You’ve done enough damage, Mr. Sinclair.”

He tried to speak, but she cut him off with a dismissive wave and turned away, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

By the time she reached the private dining area, she’d plastered on her professional smile, the one that hid exhaustion and heartbreak behind lipstick and poise.

A man in his mid-fifties stood to greet her, all charm and tailored grace. “Ah, Miss Blake,” he said warmly, extending a hand. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you. I believe your firm could be the perfect fit for our upcoming campaign.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clarke,” she replied with a practiced smile. “I’m honored.”

She was halfway into her pitch when the door opened again.

“Apologies for the delay,” came that unmistakable voice.

Dianne’s breath caught.

No. No way.

Mr. Clarke grinned. “Ah, there he is! Miss Blake, meet our CEO, Mr. Roy Sinclair.”

Her world tilted.

Roy stepped forward, his expression unreadable but his eyes — those stormy gray eyes — glinted with amusement and something darker.

Dianne froze, every muscle in her body stiff. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered under her breath.

Roy offered his hand, that smug confidence radiating off him like heat. “Nice to see you again, Miss Blake,” he said smoothly. “Small world, isn’t it?”

She didn’t take his hand. “Unfortunately.”

Mr. Clarke laughed awkwardly. “You two know each other?”

Roy smirked. “You could say… we’ve met under unusual circumstances.”

Her jaw tightened. “Let’s just get this meeting over with.”

The rest of the conversation was torture. Every time Roy spoke, Dianne could feel his gaze on her — steady, assessing, teasing. Her palms itched to slap that smug look off his face.

When the meeting ended, Mr. Clarke excused himself, leaving the two of them standing by the table.

Roy leaned casually against the chair. “You handled that well,” he said softly. “Didn’t even throw your drink at me. Impressive restraint.”

She glared at him. “I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing, Roy.”

He tilted his head slightly. “No game. Just thought you might want to grab a drink. Talk like civilized adults.”

“I’d rather drink poison.”

He chuckled, the sound deep and annoyingly attractive. “Suit yourself. At least let me give you a ride home. London’s not kind after dark.”

She snatched her purse from the chair and stood. “I’ll take my chances.”

And with that, she stormed out, her heels clicking in angry rhythm.

Outside, the cool evening air hit her face as she muttered curses under her breath. “That arrogant jerk. Always showing up like a bad dream.”

When she got home, she kicked off her shoes and collapsed on the couch. Her head was pounding, her emotions a storm she couldn’t tame.

She clenched her fists and whispered to herself, “Stay away from me, Roy Sinclair. Stay the hell away.”

Across town, Roy loosened his tie and sank into the leather sofa in his penthouse. Aaron, lounging nearby with a glass of whiskey, raised an eyebrow.

“You look like someone just punched you in the gut,” Aaron said lazily.

Roy gave a dry laugh. “Maybe she did. Not physically, but close enough.”

Aaron smirked. “Dianne Blake again, huh? I told you, man — that woman’s not like the others.”

Roy’s eyes darkened slightly. “She’s infuriating. Stubborn. Impossible to read.”

“And yet,” Aaron teased, swirling his drink, “you can’t stop talking about her.”

Roy exhaled and stared out the window at the city lights. “She’s trouble,” he muttered. “But I think I might just like the kind of trouble she brings.”