Chapter 2

That was when he saw them.

A couple near the seating area. The woman was holding two coffees.

The man had apparently said something about one of them—the wrong thing, from the look of it—because she had turned to face him with the particular energy of someone who was about to explain, very clearly and very calmly, exactly why he was incorrect. She set both cups down. Used her hands to make the point.

The man opened his mouth. She tilted her head. Waited. Let him finish. Then she picked up the argument from exactly where she'd led it and continued.

Raiyan's feet stopped.

He didn't tell them to. Something pulled in his chest. Sharp. Involuntary. The specific feeling of a scar being pressed—not painful exactly, just suddenly, inconveniently there.

A woman.

Two coffees.

An argument she was winning without raising her voice.

His jaw tightened.

He didn't mean to go back.

He went back. And before he could do anything about it—before any of the mechanisms he'd spent years building could kick in—the terminal blurred.

And he was back.

Five years ago. Heathrow.

He'd been on his phone. He was always on his phone. Three decisions ahead, half present, the rest of his attention already somewhere else entirely. Evan was behind him saying something about a delayed meeting. Raiyan wasn't listening.

Then—splat.

Cold liquid. Everywhere. His chest. His trousers. His shoes. He stopped dead. The lid was on the floor. Ice was scattered across the marble. The coffee—all of it—was on him.

The person who had walked into him was still on the phone. "I'm just strategically behind schedule," she was telling someone. Completely calm. Like she was not standing in the middle of something she had caused. "I'll call you back."

The call ended. His irritation flared, sharp and automatic—then stalled. Because she looked up. Her gaze met his. Calm. Steady. Unflinching. Not startled. Not apologetic, just there. And just like that, the annoyance wavered.

"Oh no," she breathed, finally registering his expression. "This is bad."

She dropped her phone into her bag and stepped closer. Too close. She looked at the stain spreading across his shirt. Then at him. Then back at the stain. Like she was genuinely assessing the damage before deciding her position.

"Hello, you should stay at home if you don't know how to walk," she muttered.

That was when he actually saw her. A soft bright small face that was—he didn't have an immediate category for it. Sharp features. Large hazel eyes and thick lashes that caught the terminal's light and did something specific with it, something warm and direct and slightly dangerous. Like she was reading the room even now, even here, even covered in the aftermath of her own coffee. He filed it. He always filed things.

He had absolutely no idea what to do with this one.

A midnight-blue silk trench coat fell neatly around her frame, the fabric shifting as she steadied herself. Beneath it, cream high-waisted trousers and ankle boots struck the floor in a hurried rhythm. Practical. Precise. Unapologetically confident. Her hair was loosely tied back, dark strands escaping a careless knot, already refusing discipline. Sunglasses rested on top of her head, pushed there without thought. A tote hung from one shoulder while she tried—unsuccessfully—to manage her bag and the remains of her iced caramel macchiato.

"Fascinating," he said, his voice a low, smooth blade. "I’ll take that into account. And you should stay home until you decide whether those eyes are for navigation—or just a decorative choice."

The words were already out. She didn't flinch. She met his gaze calmly, mouth curving just slightly, as if the situation amused her more than it alarmed her.

"No," she said evenly. "My eyes are on vacation."

His irritation should have surged back—it didn't. She gestured lightly between them. "Also, the accident was front-facing. So you're at fault too."

Something shifted in his chest—subtle, unwelcome. "And," she added, glancing pointedly at his shirt, "your shirt consumed my morning coffee like it was waiting for it."

He exhaled once, slow and controlled, recalibrating. Her gaze followed his then—to the spreading stain, the ruined fabric.

"Okay," she said, the humor dimming just a notch. "This part's on me."

She reached into her bag, pulled out a small floral handkerchief, and dabbed at his chest without hesitation. Warmth beneath the fabric. Solid. Close.

Raiyan stiffened. His hand closed around her wrist before he consciously decided to move. The air between them suddenly felt thin, the kind of vacuum that happens right before a storm. Raiyan’s hand was a warm, heavy shackle around her wrist.

"I think," he said, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a split second before snapping back to her eyes, "you've done enough damage."

She didn't flinch. She didn't even try to pull away. She just tilted her head, her pulse steady under his thumb. "...Are you always this dramatic," she asked, "or did my coffee offend you personally?"

Something in him paused. That wasn't fear. That was confidence. It unsettled him more than panic ever would have. He released her wrist.

"You should've been a lawyer," he said.

"I'm working on it." Her mouth curved.

He lifted his gaze slowly. "I'm trying to decide whether this was an accident... or a cry for attention."

She blinked.

Once.

Then smiled.

Not wide. Not sweet. Just enough. The kind of smile that didn't ask permission—and didn't offer apologies. Something flickered across his face. Brief.

Unwelcome.

Interest.

"You think I spilled coffee on you for attention?" she asked lightly.

"You walked into me."

"Yes," she nodded. "With commitment."

His jaw tightened. She was watching him with those eyes. That was the problem. That was the whole problem. Before she could react, he reached for her second cup.

Her gasp was immediate. "Absolutely not."

"You owe me a shirt."

"You owe me emotional damage."

He tipped the cup—just enough. She froze. "...Did you just sip-spill me?"

"I showed restraint." He raised his brow.

"You weaponized caffeine," she accused. "That's a crime."

"Prove it."

"Careful! I'm a law student."

"Of course you are."

"That explains the ego," she said.

"That explains the attitude."

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

She was already looking at him with that expression—calm, waiting, like she had the next three moves ready and was giving him time to catch up.

He almost said something.

Almost.

The problem was she kept landing them before he could. And instead of irritating him the way it should have—the way it would have, from anyone else—he found himself not quite wanting the conversation to end. Which was new.

He noticed, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the corner of his mouth had moved. Not a smirk. Not the controlled version he deployed in boardrooms.

An actual smile.

Small.

Involuntary.

Gone almost immediately.

He couldn't remember the last time that had happened. She'd done it without even trying. They stood there, closer than necessary, both damp, irritation crackling—and something else entirely. And he realized, against his will, that he was smiling.

"So," she said, glancing between their ruined clothes, "we're both unhinged."

His lips twitched despite himself.

"I'll buy you a coffee," she added.

"Out of guilt?" he asked.

"Compensation for igniting your morning tantrums."

No one had spoken to him like that in his adult life.

"I thought it was for ruining my shirt," he replied.

She smiled—slow, satisfied. "Try not to assault anyone else with beverages today."

She stepped away then.

Raiyan didn't follow.

He stood there instead, still holding the coffee she'd pressed into his hand before leaving. He took a sip without thinking.

Then another.

Only then did he realize he was smiling.

Not the polite kind. Not the controlled one. An actual smile. It lingered longer than it should have. Long enough to bother him. Long enough to make him aware of it.

He'd been surrounded by women his entire life. Family gatherings. Offices. Parties. People who mistook proximity for access. He'd learned early how to keep distance without explanation, how to make himself unavailable without effort. It had never been difficult. And yet—he was standing in the middle of Heathrow, holding a paper cup of coffee he hadn't paid for.

Smiling.

But just before he was through the door—involuntarily, briefly, before he could stop it—his eyes went to the one she'd walked through.

Already gone.

Present day. Geneva came back. Hard. Cold.

Present.

Raiyan blinked once. He looked down at his sleeve. Old reflex. Checking for something that wasn't there. Hadn't been there for two years. His jaw was tight. He breathed in. Slow. Out. He turned.

Michael—who had been watching, because watching carefully was part of his job—saw it. Just for a second. The corner of Raiyan's eyes. A redness that had no business being there. Gone before it fully arrived.

But there.

Raiyan straightened. Adjusted his cuffs. Reset his expression to its operational setting with the efficiency of a man who had practised this for years.

"Michael."

"Sir."

"Whatever Zoya Al Fayez has against Mansoor Corporation—I want all of it. Every file, every weapon she can use. Every contact. Everything she doesn't want, found." A pause. "And find out who the victims of Mansoor chemical factory's water poisoning [are]."