Chapter 3: The First Glance

Julian Blackwood didn't wait.

Didn't wait for board members. Didn't wait stuck in traffic. Didn't wait on anyone else's clock but his own. But on that day, as the motor of his black Mercedes purred softly along the curb of an alleyway, he waited.

He glanced at the dashboard clock: 4:56 p.m.

Four minutes ahead of time.

The irony was not lost on him. His time was typically worth more per minute than most people made in an hour. And here he was, doing it himself—no Leo, no aide—picking up his daughter from some dingy, unnoticeable bookstore.

A whim. That's what he kept telling himself.

He had completed a brutal acquisition call an hour early. Instead of driving to his penthouse to stare into the same glass of stale scotch, he told his assistant to cancel dinner tonight and turned the car around.

His daughter was more valuable than his sporadic and hollow "I love yous." This was an attempt—a cold, awkward one—to reach for something real again.

He hadn't expected the street to be so quiet.

Julian's eyes scanned the tiny shop wedged between a boutique flower store and a yoga studio. **Chapter & Soul**. The title glowed faintly on the sign above, gold lettering on emerald wood, refined and timeless.

Something bothered him.

Too homespun. Too gentle. Like a shop that acted as if the world wasn't hard-edged and unforgiving.

He stepped out of the car, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, and made his way to the door.

The doorbell over the door rang when he entered, and for an instant, he stood still—not uncertain, but due to the strange warmth that rushed up to meet him.

It smelled like cardamom tea and old parchment. Music was playing softly in the background—something acoustic, not jarring. Books lined every wall, their spines lovingly lined up by color and genre. A shelf of poetry books sat in the corner, surrounded by dried lavender and hand-painted bookmarks.

And behind the counter. she stood there.

Lena had just rolled a stack of children's books under the register when she looked up—and they made eye contact.

For the first time.

Julian sensed it like a ripple in calm water. It wasn't lightning or a sudden jolt. It was softer than that. Slower. But no less intense.

A glance. A flicker of something he couldn't quite name.

Her eyes were soft brown, wide and open, as if they gazed at the world with too much hope. There was a smudge of graphite on her cheek, and her hair was tied back with a brass clip in the form of a crescent moon. She regarded him without fear. Without recognition. Just… curiosity.

He was used to women looking—but not like that.

Not like they didn't know him.

Not like they were trying to read him, not win him over.

"Can I help you?" she asked quietly.

Her voice punched him deep in his chest. Warm. Not flirting. Just genuine.

He cleared his throat.

"I'm seeing Aria Blackwood," he said, his voice clipped and biting.

Lena blinked in surprise. "You're her dad?"

Something about the inquiry irritated him—like she didn't believe he should be there.

"Yes."

“She’s just in the reading nook.” Lena stepped around the counter, brushing past him with the scent of vanilla and paper trailing behind her. “I’ll get her.”

He watched her walk—unhurried, grounded, graceful in a way that didn’t seem rehearsed.

Julian's gaze swept the shop again, noticing each worn rug, each broken teacup being used as a penholder. The shop was messy according to corporate standards, but there was. love here. He could feel it. As if each inch of this shop had been touched, tended, cherished.

He disliked it.

Love made things weak.

But his eyes drifted back to her as she knelt by Aria, smoothing a hand through his daughter's black hair with a practiced skill. Aria smiled, cradling a book to her chest, and leapt up.

"Daddy!"

Julian tensed a little. She didn't use that word anymore. Only "Father," when required. But today, something softer came from her mouth.

He stooped as she flitted into his arms, holding him a beat more than he intended. She smelled like peppermint and paper.

"I wasn't expecting you," she said, her tiny hands gripping his coat.

"I finished up early," he replied. "Thought I'd take a look at this bookstore you're always talking about."

Lena stood near, watching them, her expression unreadable but warm. She smiled, but it didn't reach for anything. It just was—like sunlight. Not performative, not faked.

"It's her happy place," Lena said quietly.

Julian stood up, readjusting Aria on his hip. "She talks about it a lot."

"She has excellent taste," Lena said, with a soft laugh in her voice.

Another spark.

He looked at her fully this time—eyes tracing the curve of her cheek, the shade of her lips, the smudge of ink on her fingers. She was dull, according to high society. No diamonds. No designer heels. Her sweater was frayed at the wrist. But there was something about her that unsettled him.

Too open. Too… honest.

He did not approve.

"Thank you," he said icily. "For indulging her."

"I don't play along with her," Lena replied, tilting her head. "She belongs here. We just leave her alone to pretend."

The sentence jolted him. He wasn't sure if it was a reprimand or a philosophy. Either one of them, however, lingered with him.

He nodded once and stepped. "Come, Aria."

As they walked away from the shop, Lena returned to the counter. But something in her heart was different. She watched them cross the street, the man with the jaw of granite and eyes of sorrow carrying the little girl who danced in verse.

And for a moment shorter than a breath, she wondered who he was beneath that armor of steel and silk.

Julian, fastening Aria into the car seat, slowed as the bookstore reappeared. Lena's silhouette standing behind glass. Her head bent as she scribbled something into a notebook.

He caught himself staring.

And just as quickly averted his face.

It meant nothing.

A flash.

A trick of light.