CHAPTER THREE-WHISPERS OF THE HEART

Rose sat at the small café table outside, the cool morning breeze teasing loose strands of her hair as she stirred her coffee absentmindedly. The dark liquid swirled in lazy eddies, mirroring the swirl of thoughts in her mind. She wondered if the answers she sought might somehow float up from the depths of her cup, but all she saw was the reflection of the pale blue sky and the flicker of passing clouds.

Across from her, Sam Hart leaned back in his chair with effortless ease, his eyes calm yet attentive. There was a quiet confidence about him — the kind that didn’t need to shout to be heard. His gaze met hers now and then, inviting, steady, as if willing her to let down the walls she kept so carefully built. Around them, the café buzzed with the low hum of morning chatter and the clink of cups, but between Sam and Rose, the silence felt comfortable and a gentle conversation unfolding without words.

“So… you work at the auto shop?” Rose asked, her tone casual, but her mind was already crafting an image: grease-stained overalls, late nights under flickering garage lights, and the faint scent of motor oil clinging to his clothes. It was a world so far removed from the polished floors and glittering chandeliers she was used to.

Sam’s lips twitched in a half-smile, the corner lifting like a secret he wasn’t ready to share. “Something like that.”

Something like that.

Rose didn’t press further. She didn’t need to. Whatever the truth was, it didn’t seem to matter. There was something about Sam his steady presence, the way his eyes softened when he looked at her that made her feel oddly safe, like the world outside the café’s warm walls couldn’t touch them here.

But deep down, Rose knew what her mother would say. Diana Westwood didn’t tolerate anything beneath their carefully maintained standards. She had a sixth sense for sniffing out people who didn’t belong in their rarefied circle ,those who couldn’t fit into the gleaming puzzle of her carefully curated life. She wouldn’t approve of Sam, that much was certain. The boy with the worn jacket, the beat-up car, the quiet way of moving through the world without demanding attention.

Rose forced a smile, hiding the warmth stirring inside her chest whenever Sam looked at her like he could see something she herself hadn’t discovered yet.

Meanwhile, miles away in the pristine calm of the Westwood mansion, Diana Westwood flipped through a glossy lifestyle magazine, her fingers tapping impatiently against the cover. The headlines about celebrity weddings and high society galas felt trivial tonight. Her mind was elsewhere fixed on a single image that wouldn’t leave her: Rose, walking home the other night, arm linked with that boy Sam Hart.

The memory twisted in her gut like a sharp blade.

That boy whose car looked like it had been dragged through a junkyard and left to rust. That boy whose clothes spoke of struggle, not privilege. Not for her daughter. Never for her daughter.

Diana’s jaw tightened as she snatched up her phone, fingers trembling slightly with the fury she tried to suppress.

“Find out everything you can about a man named Sam Hart,” she said, her voice low but sharp. “I don’t care how you do it. I want his history, his job, his family and everything.”

On the other end of the line, the silence was heavy for a moment before a faint click marked the end of the call.

Later that evening, the street was bathed in the soft amber glow of the streetlights, their pools of light casting long shadows across the pavement. Sam walked beside Rose, the night air crisp and carrying the faint scent of blooming jasmine from a nearby garden. His jawline was softened by the streetlight’s glow, making him look almost unreal like a figure stepped out of a dream.

Rose hugged her coat tighter around her slender frame, the chill brushing at her skin but unable to touch the warmth rising inside her.

“You know,” Sam said quietly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, “you have this habit of looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out.”

She laughed softly, the sound light but tinged with something deeper. “Maybe I am.”

“And?”

“And… I haven’t decided yet.”

His smile deepened with the half-smile that suggested he knew more than he was saying. There was a flicker of something in his eyes a shadow, maybe, or a secret  that told her he was holding parts of himself close, pieces she wasn’t ready to see.

When they reached her gate, Sam hesitated for a moment, the weight of the night settling between them.

“Goodnight, Rose.”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

As she watched him walk away, a strange ache tightened in her chest. She told herself it was curiosity, just curiosity but deep inside, she knew it was something more and probably something dangerous.

Across the street, hidden in the shadow of a parked car, a man lowered his phone after snapping a photo of them together. His eyes gleamed coldly as he typed a short message.

Found him.

The screen’s light flickered against his face, revealing a small, satisfied smile as he hit send.