Sophie's POV
The office building doors swing shut behind me, releasing me into the early evening air after another exhausting day of trying to salvage my father's disaster.
My shoulders ache from hunching over spreadsheets, my eyes burn from staring at screens, and my soul feels approximately three sizes too small for my body.
Bankruptcy proceedings are not for the faint of heart. Neither is cleaning up the mess left by a man who never considered consequences for anyone but himself.
I'm digging through my purse for my phone when I hear my name.
"Sophie!"
My head snaps up, and there he is—Eric, standing near the corner like he's been waiting for exactly this moment. His face lights up when our eyes meet, that easy smile spreading across his handsome features.
What had seemed like a simple one-night stand months ago has evolved into something more complicated.
He's made several attempts to reconnect since that interrupted evening—texts I've left on read, calls I've let go to voicemail, invitations I've politely declined. But here he is, persistent and apparently undeterred.
"Eric." I manage a tired smile as he approaches. "What are you doing here?"
"I was hoping I might run into you," he admits, falling into step beside me. "I know your office is around here, and I thought maybe... would you like to grab dinner sometime? Somewhere we won't get interrupted by family drama this time."
My mouth opens to deliver the practiced deflection I've perfected over weeks of avoidance. I'm not looking for anything serious right now. My life is too chaotic and complicated for dating. It's better if we keep things casual—meaning nonexistent.
But the words die in my throat. Because my attention has snagged on something behind Eric's shoulder, and suddenly the careful speech I'd prepared evaporates into cold, creeping dread.
A dark sedan sits parked across the street. Engine running, windows tinted dark enough to obscure whoever's inside.
It's not the first time I've noticed this particular car—or one exactly like it. Outside my apartment building, near the café where I meet clients, idling at intersections I happen to be crossing.
My sixth sense, honed by months of dealing with dangerous creditors and my father's shady business associates, screams a warning I can no longer ignore.
I'm being followed, watched, possibly targeted.
The realization makes my blood run cold. Being alone right now feels incredibly foolish, possibly dangerous. Without thinking, I grab Eric's arm and completely reverse course.
"Actually, that sounds perfect. Let's go right now—there's a café just around the block. My treat."
Eric blinks, clearly surprised by my sudden enthusiasm after weeks of brushing him off. "Really? I mean, great! I wasn't expecting you to—"
"Come on." I'm already pulling him in the opposite direction from the sedan, walking fast without quite breaking into a run. "I'm starving and the coffee there is amazing."
"Okay, sure." He matches my pace, though I can feel his confusion. "Is everything all right? You seem kind of..."
"Fine. Everything's fine. Just had a long day and really need caffeine."
I keep glancing over my shoulder as we walk, watching for any sign of the dark car pulling away from the curb to follow.
Three blocks pass, then four. When we finally push through the doors of a crowded café several streets away from my office, I feel some of the tension drain from my shoulders.
Public place, lots of witnesses—harder to do anything threatening here.
"You sure you're okay?" Eric studies my face as we claim a small table near the back. "You keep looking at the door like you're expecting someone."
"Just... work stress." I force myself to focus on him, to stop scanning every window for threats. "Tell me about your day. Distract me from mine."
He raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. Instead, he launches into a story about a difficult client and a presentation gone wrong, complete with self-deprecating humor and animated gestures. Despite everything, I find myself smiling.
"So there I am," he continues, "standing in front of the entire board, and my laptop decides that's the perfect moment to install updates. Three executives watching me sweat while a progress bar crawls across the screen."
"What did you do?"
"Tap-danced. Literally. Bought myself five minutes with the only skill I retained from childhood dance lessons."
I laugh—actually laugh, the sound surprising me. "You did not."
"I absolutely did. Full shuffle-ball-change and everything. The CFO was so confused he forgot to be annoyed."
The afternoon stretches into evening as we order food, then coffee, then dessert neither of us needs but both of us want. Initially, I remain tense and distracted, my gaze drifting to the windows every few minutes to check for dark sedans or suspicious figures.
But gradually, Eric's natural charm works its magic.
He's more thoughtful than I remembered from our brief physical encounter. He asks about my work with genuine interest, shares stories about his own life that reveal vulnerability beneath the confident exterior.
He makes me laugh repeatedly, and each time it feels like a small victory against the anxiety gnawing at my edges.
"So what do you do for fun when you're not saving companies from themselves?" he asks, leaning back in his chair. "Hobbies? Secret passions? Underground fight club?"
"Honestly? I don't have much time for fun these days." The admission feels more raw than I intended. "Work has been... consuming."
"That sounds exhausting. And lonely."
The observation lands closer to the truth than I'm comfortable acknowledging. "It is what it is. Some situations require total focus."
"And after? When the situation is resolved?" He holds my gaze steadily. "Will you let yourself have a life then?"
I consider the question—really consider it. What would it be like to let Eric into my complicated existence?
To have someone who cares about my wellbeing, who wants to share meals and conversations and maybe something more? The fantasy is dangerously appealing.
But reality crashes back in before I can let myself dream too long.
This is already the most dangerous and complicated period of my life. Whoever is following me, creditors, criminals, associates of my father's worst decisions, they're watching, tracking my movements.
Possibly waiting for the right moment to make demands I can't meet.
Getting involved with someone new would be unfair to Eric. He doesn't deserve to be dragged into whatever mess my father has created, doesn't deserve to become collateral damage in a war he knows nothing about.
And it would be dangerous for both of us if the people following me decide he's connected to my problems.
"I should probably get going," I say, checking my phone as an excuse to break eye contact. "Early morning tomorrow."
"Let me walk you home."
"That's not necessary."
"Sophie." His voice is gentle but firm. "You've been looking over your shoulder all evening. Something's bothering you, and I'm not letting you walk home alone in the dark."
I want to argue, want to protect him from proximity to my chaos. But the thought of walking past that sedan by myself, of being alone and vulnerable on dark streets, makes my stomach clench with fear.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "Thank you."
His smile is warm, relieved. Like he actually cares what happens to me.
I push down the flutter of something dangerous in my chest and remind myself: this can't go anywhere. For his sake, if not for mine.