Chapter 2 – The First Collision

Sleep and I stopped being friends a long time ago. The glow of my monitor is the only light left in the office, cold and steady, outlining stacks of files and empty coffee cups. Everyone else clocked out hours ago, but I’m still here—eyes dry, fingers tracing patterns across encrypted spreadsheets that refuse to give up their secrets.

Vale Global Security’s accounts are a fortress. Every transaction feels… deliberate. Clean on the surface, but too smooth to be natural.

I zoom in on a data cluster. “Come on,” I mutter, tapping a key. “Show me what you’re hiding.”

A line of code blinks back, mocking me. My vision blurs for a second. I blink hard, rub my temples. The hum of the office feels heavier at this hour, the AC too cold, the silence too loud.

I drag in a breath and lean back in my chair. “Five minutes,” I whisper. “Just five.”

My phone buzzes. A message from Charlotte:

“Any progress?”

I type back, Still digging. He’s clean so far.

Then, almost against my own will, I add, Too clean.

I close my laptop and stretch, bones popping in protest. My body’s running on caffeine and spite. If I stay another minute, I’ll start seeing numbers in my dreams.

The thought of my apartment—the stale air, the flickering hallway light—doesn’t sound appealing. I need to breathe. Think. Be human again for an hour.

I grab my coat, stuff the file into my satchel, and head out into the night.

---

The city smells like rain and engine fumes. Neon signs pulse in puddles, the rhythm of the streets softer this late. I walk until the tension in my shoulders eases, and the glow of a small restaurant catches my eye—a quiet corner place, warm lights, not crowded.

Perfect.

Inside, the air is thick with the scent of roasted coffee and something sweet. Jazz hums from a speaker in the corner. I find a booth near the window, drop my satchel beside me, and order something light. The waitress smiles, too tired to mean it, and disappears behind the counter.

For a few moments, I just sit there. Breathing. Watching the city through the rain-streaked glass. The reflection of the restaurant flickers over the windowpane, blending strangers and headlights into a moving blur.

I open the folder again, because of course I do. Some part of me can’t stop.

Damon Vale stares back at me from a glossy photo—taken at a conference, suit immaculate, expression unreadable. He looks like a man who never loses control of anything. Not his company. Not his secrets. Not even the air around him.

I trace the line of his jaw with my eyes, studying every detail. He’s the kind of man people underestimate until it’s too late. The kind who makes enemies quietly—and buries them just as silently.

“Excuse me—”

A deep voice cuts through my thoughts just as I look up—and in one careless second, everything tilts.

The waiter stumbles past, bumping my elbow. My drink tips over. Cold liquid splashes across the table, across the open folder, and—God help me—across the man standing right in front of me.

“Oh my God—” I grab napkins, blotting uselessly at the dark stain spreading over his shirt. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

And then I freeze.

Because when he looks down at me, eyes locking with mine, the world goes still.

It’s him.

Damon Vale.

Every pixel I’ve stared at, every report I’ve read—none of it prepared me for the real thing. He’s taller than I expected, presence magnetic, gaze sharp enough to slice through me. Up close, there’s something colder about him, something dangerous beneath the calm exterior.

For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks. The air hums between us, charged.

He glances at the napkins in my trembling hand, then back at my face. A faint curve touches his mouth—not quite a smile, not yet. “I suppose this is one way to make an introduction.”

My throat feels dry. “I—uh—really didn’t mean to—”

His voice is smooth, quiet, the kind of voice that makes you listen. “Relax. It’s just a shirt.”

He takes the napkin from me gently, his fingers brushing mine—warm, controlled, deliberate. My pulse stutters. I can’t tell if it’s embarrassment or something else entirely.

“Still,” I manage, forcing composure, “let me pay for the cleaning.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He folds the napkin once, sets it aside, and studies me like I’m the mystery in the room. “You look like someone who doesn’t usually spill things.”

A nervous laugh escapes me. “You’d be surprised.”

“Would I?” His gaze lingers, curious. “Do you come here often, Miss…?”

My brain scrambles for an answer that isn’t Detective Vivian Cross, cybercrime unit, currently investigating your company for possible financial fraud.

“Vivian,” I say quickly. “Just Vivian.”

“Just Vivian.” He repeats it softly, like he’s testing the sound. “Nice to meet you.”

The waitress returns, apologizing for the spill, and Damon waves it off with a polite nod. His focus stays on me, calm but unreadable.

When she’s gone, I exhale slowly. My hands are still damp, my heart beating far too fast.

He glances at the folder beside me—half open, a corner of his photo visible. My breath catches.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he picks up his jacket from the back of his chair, the motion smooth and precise. “Enjoy your evening, Vivian.”

And just like that, he turns and walks out into the rain, leaving me staring after him with my heart thundering in my chest.

I sink back into the booth, staring at the faint imprint of his hand on the napkin. The city lights outside smear across the glass, distorted by the raindrops.

What are the odds?

Out of every place in this city, he had to walk into mine.

I look down at the soaked photo still on the table, his eyes blurred but still watching me. Something tightens in my stomach—fear, fascination, maybe both.

Because now it’s not just a case file. It’s him. Flesh, voice, presence.

And suddenly, the line between professional and personal feels dangerously thin.