Things That Don’t Belong.

Catherine sat on the edge of her bed that night, barefoot, robe loose around her shoulders, staring at a dress she didn’t want to wear.

It was a pale blue gown — sleek, expensive, lifeless.

Just like the man she was expected to wear it for.

James Carter.

Heir to a chain of luxury resorts. Handsome in a hollow way. Safe in all the wrong ways.

Their families had been “suggesting” an engagement for over a year now. Her mother called it strategic. Her father called it inevitable.

Catherine had always called it a prison in silk.

She turned away from the dress and reached for her phone. A new message flashed from an unsaved number:

Your car’s driving like new. Just like I promised. —Elijah

She stared at the screen longer than she should have.

She didn’t text back.

She didn’t delete it either.

Elijah stood alone in the garage, late that night, the lights dimmed and the radio off. Just the hum of silence and the soft tick of cooling engines.

He should’ve locked up an hour ago.

Instead, he stood over the workbench, his hands resting on the edge like he was holding himself back from something.

The photo from the fridge sat beside an envelope.

Inside was a letter — thick, formal, embossed.

From Blakes International Holdings.

His family.

The same family that tried to shape him into something polished and ruthless. The same one that tore down businesses like Catherine’s father built — and Catherine’s family despised.

He hadn’t opened the letter yet.

He didn’t want to know what they wanted now. Money? Silence? Return?

He didn’t care.

But Catherine…

She made him care about things again. Things he’d worked hard to bury.

He ran a hand through his hair, eyes drifting to the message he’d sent her earlier. No reply. That was probably smart.

Smart wasn’t what he wanted.

The next morning

Catherine was standing in the back of a coffee shop near SoHo, trying to hide behind a menu.

Her best friend Harper spotted her instantly.

“Oh my God,” Harper said, slipping off her sunglasses. “You are avoiding James. Again.”

“I’m not,” Catherine said, flipping the menu. “I’m… postponing.”

“You were supposed to have brunch with his mother. And you’re here drinking burnt espresso in a hoodie.”

Catherine groaned. “Why is it so wrong to not want to marry someone just because he owns beach property?”

Harper leaned in. “Who is he?”

“What?”

“The guy you’re thinking about.”

Catherine blinked.

“You only question the system when you’ve got a reason. Spill.”

She hesitated, then sighed. “A mechanic.”

Harper nearly choked on her croissant. “I’m sorry, what?”

“He fixed my car. He’s… sharp. Confident. Nothing like James.”

“Rich?”

“Not even close.” Catherine stirred her coffee. “But he saw me. Like I wasn’t just a headline or a last name. Like I was just… Catherine.”

Harper leaned back, studying her. “And now what?”

“I don’t know,” Catherine whispered. “But I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Meanwhile, across town, Elijah finally ripped open the envelope.

Inside: a single-page summons.

A demand from his father’s legal team.

“You are hereby requested to attend the Blakes Holdings 75th Anniversary Gala…”

He crumpled the page and threw it across the room.

His past wasn’t just knocking — it was kicking the door in.

And Catherine?

She had no idea who he really was.

Yet.

Later that night, Catherine opened her messages.

She stared at Elijah’s text again.

This time, she typed back:

“So what else do you fix?”

And hit send.

The moment it delivered, her stomach flipped. She hated that. Hated how her heart had the audacity to care.

Seconds passed. Then a minute. Then two.

Then her phone buzzed.

“I fix cars. Occasionally bruised pride. You?”

She smiled, biting her lip. She typed:

“I break rules.”

“And sometimes hearts.”

“But only on weekends.”

The typing dots blinked, then disappeared. Then came back.

“Good. I’m free this Saturday.”

Her heart thudded. She stared at those six words like they were an invitation and a dare.

She should stop this.

But it was already too late.

Saturday, 7:02 PM.

Catherine stood outside a tiny Italian restaurant tucked between a bookstore and a tattoo parlor, dressed in a soft sweater dress and low boots. Nothing designer. Nothing flashy.

She looked like a version of herself she almost recognized—and almost missed.

Elijah was already waiting, leaning against the wall beside the door. Black jeans. Rolled sleeves. That same infuriating smirk.

“You clean up well,” she said, eyes raking over him.

“So do you. Almost didn’t recognize you without the attitude.”

“I keep it in my purse.”

He held the door open for her. “Leave it there tonight.”

Inside, the restaurant was dim and warm, with exposed brick walls and soft jazz humming beneath the clink of forks and soft laughter. It was nothing like the places she usually went.

And somehow, exactly what she needed.

They ordered simple dishes. Pasta. Wine. No six-course menus. No crystal chandeliers. Just… conversation.

“I Googled you,” he said, after a long sip of wine.

She froze. “And?”

“You’re terrifying.”

She snorted. “Most men say impressive.”

“They’re lying. Or rich enough not to care.”

“What did you find?”

“Photos. Articles. Charity galas. And a very awkward picture of you in a tiara at some debutante ball.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “Burn it.”

“Too late. I saved it.”

She laughed. He grinned.

The air shifted.

As the night wore on, their walls lowered. She told him about boarding school in Geneva. He told her about sleeping in the back of a truck after he left home. She didn’t press for details.

He didn’t offer any.

But it was the space between words that pulled her in most—the things he didn’t say.

She caught him watching her when she wasn’t looking.

Like he was memorizing her.

Later.

Outside, it had started to rain.

“I’ll call a car,” she said.

“I’ll walk you.”

“I’m wearing suede.”

“You’re rich. They’ll survive.”

She laughed, but followed him down the sidewalk, rain misting around them. His jacket was too thin. Her hair was starting to curl. And for once—she didn’t care.

They stopped under a canopy just before the next block.

Neither moved.

“Elijah,” she said softly. “Why do I feel like you’re hiding something?”

His jaw ticked. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I do.”

He stepped closer. The space between them shrank.

Too close.

Not close enough.

His hand reached up—fingertips brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek.

“I’m not the guy you think I am,” he said.

“Then tell me who you are.”

He hesitated.

Then the sound of a phone ringing broke the moment. Loud. Sharp. Real.

He stepped back.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling it from his pocket. He glanced at the screen—Unknown Number—and declined the call.

But Catherine caught the look on his face before he turned away.

Fear.

Regret.

Recognition.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

He nodded.

Lied.

Cut to Elijah’s POV: Later that night

He sat in the dark of his apartment, phone glowing with missed calls. All from New York international numbers. The kind he used to answer with “Sir” and “Yes, Father.”

He didn’t call them back.

Instead, he pulled the old photograph from his wallet again.

The one with him in the tailored suit. The same man beside him, stone-faced, ruthless.

His father.

Next to it, he unfolded the summons to the Blakes Holdings Gala once more.

He stared at the name printed at the bottom:

Jonathan Smith — keynote speaker.

Catherine’s father.

He closed his eyes.

“Of all the girls in this city…”