Reasons to Return.

The next morning, Catherine sat in the back seat of a black Rolls-Royce Phantom, one perfectly manicured hand gripping a travel mug of green juice, the other scrolling her phone.

Messages, meeting invites, and one stern text from her mother blinked on the screen:

Catherine, your father expects you at the board brunch. No excuses this time. Wear white. Bring your polish, not your pout.

She rolled her eyes and dropped the phone into her Hermès bag.

Yesterday’s grime-streaked garage should’ve been forgotten by now. Elijah’s smirk, his voice, the oil-smudged shirt clinging to his back—none of it belonged in her world.

And yet, when she looked out the window, watching rows of glittering Fifth Avenue boutiques blur past, he was still there. In the back of her mind. Like he’d carved out a space without asking.

Why?

He wasn’t rich. Wasn’t powerful. Wasn’t anyone.

At least, not on paper.

But he looked at her like he wasn’t afraid of her last name. He spoke to her like she was just a girl with a broken car—not a name on a million-dollar trust.

That made him dangerous.

And thrilling.

And impossible to stop thinking about.

The brunch was as unbearable as ever.

Thirty women, four pastel suits per table, one crisp air kiss at a time. Her father, Jonathan Smith, sat at the head of the table, flanked by men with polished shoes and gold pens clipped to their inner pockets. Every word at the table sounded like a business deal in disguise.

Catherine listened to a woman brag about her daughter’s engagement to a royal-adjacent banker, all while tasting none of the food on her plate. It all tasted like obligation.

After an hour of nodding and smiling, she excused herself and walked onto the rooftop terrace.

The sky was bright. Birds circled the skyline. Somewhere in the distance, construction clanged.

She reached for her phone, opened the car service app—then hesitated.

Her Bentley was still at Blakes Auto.

She should call to have it delivered. She shouldn’t go back there herself.

But she didn’t close the app.

She didn’t make the call either.

An hour later, Catherine was standing in front of the garage again—this time in flats and sunglasses, a loose sweater hiding her designer blouse like she was in disguise.

Elijah was under the hood of a Jeep when she walked in. Grease streaked his wrist, and a smudge of black dust darkened the side of his jaw.

He didn’t look up right away. “Back for round two?”

“I came for my car.”

“Of course you did.”

He stood up straight, brushing his hands on a towel. “Battery’s replaced. Alternator too. You’re good to go.”

“Great,” she said, but didn’t move. “How much do I owe you?”

He told her the price. She blinked.

“That’s… cheap.”

He shrugged. “I’m not trying to impress you.”

“Maybe you should,” she teased.

He looked at her then. Long and slow, like he was reading something beneath her skin.

“I thought you were gone for good,” he said.

“Why?”

“Girls like you don’t usually come back.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe I’m not the kind of girl you think I am.”

“Maybe not.”

Silence.

She stepped closer, dropping her keys into her bag with a soft clink. “So what’s your story, Elijah?”

He wiped sweat from his neck, then tossed the rag aside. “No story. Just a guy who fixes engines and doesn’t believe in fairy tales.”

“You don’t seem like a guy who belongs in a garage.”

“You don’t seem like a girl who gets her hands dirty,” he said, glancing at her diamond bracelet.

“I could surprise you.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “I bet you could.”

The tension between them simmered, heavy and electric.

Before she could say something she’d regret, a loud honk interrupted them. A black town car pulled up across the street.

Her father’s car.

Catherine turned pale. “Shit.”

Elijah raised an eyebrow. “That your driver?”

She hesitated. “No. My father’s.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No. And he can’t.”

“Then go,” he said, voice steady.

She nodded and backed toward the side door. “Can I come back?”

He paused, then said quietly:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Catherine slipped out the back door of the garage, heart racing. Her father’s car idled across the street, the tinted windows like black mirrors, hiding the man inside who’d ground her decisions down to checklists and duty.

She didn’t breathe until she was around the block.

Inside the garage, Elijah stood still, wiping his hands slowly. He watched her retreating figure through the grease-smeared side window.

She wasn’t supposed to come back.

They never did.

But she had.

He let out a slow breath and reached for the mini fridge. Not for a drink—he rarely kept more than old water bottles inside—but for what was taped to the inside wall.

A photograph.

He peeled it off the metal carefully. Edges frayed, colors faded, but the people in the photo looked sharp. Clean-cut. Cold.

A man in a tailored suit stood in the center, his arm around a younger version of Elijah.

Elijah was smiling. Barely. Dressed in Armani. Eyes sharper. Shoulders tense. Like he knew even then the world he was born into wasn’t the one he wanted.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then carefully folded it, tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans.

The garage phone rang once. He didn’t move to answer.

Instead, he whispered under his breath, like confessing something to no one.

“She’s the last person who should know.”