Chapter 2
ChThe rain had a way of sneaking in on days when everything else was already going wrong. Clara pulled her thin cardigan tighter around her shoulders, though the drizzle soaked straight through. Her portfolio—once bright with charcoal sketches and oil smudges—was tucked under her arm, its edges frayed like her patience.
Another interview. Another rejection. Another polite smile from a receptionist who knew, long before the hiring manager walked in, that Clara Bennett wasn’t what they were looking for.
“We’re pursuing candidates with a bit more experience,” the woman at Cole Global Enterprise (CGE) had said, with that saccharine tone that meant, Don’t come back.
Experience. As though years of sketching until her fingers cramped, of painting through hunger, of pushing herself to keep going when life kept stripping things away—didn’t count.
Clara’s breath came out shaky. She should be used to it now, but the rejection still stung, settling heavy in her chest.
Her fingers trembled as she pinned her curls back into place, leaving soft honey-brown tendrils to frame her face. Her warm brown eyes, usually steady, seemed dulled now with exhaustion. The drizzle caught in her lashes, but instead of dimming her, it only made her look more luminous—like someone who carried her burdens yet refused to let them crush her. There was a quiet strength in her features, the kind that came not from ease but from enduring.
Home wasn’t much of a refuge, not since the accident that took her mother when she was twelve. Her father had remarried quickly, and the new household never quite had room for her. Her father, though not unkind, had long since surrendered his backbone to Margaret, her stepmother and Margaret’s affection never stretched in Clara’s direction. It was reserved entirely for Julia, her daughter—the perfect one, the one who got piano lessons and new dresses while Clara got hand-me-downs.
“You should be helping your sister prepare for her recital, not wasting your time with sketches,” Margaret had once said, snatching a pencil from Clara’s hand. She’d been sixteen then, old enough to know dreams could be taken just as easily as pencils.
So Clara worked. Waitressing, temp jobs, cleaning houses, anything to scrape together enough for rent and groceries, while her stepsister glided through life with their parent’s applause.
Today, though, she had nothing but a rejection slip and rain-soaked shoes.
Her stomach growled as she passed a bakery window where golden pastries steamed behind the glass, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since morning. She tore her eyes away before hunger turned into humiliation.
It was that moment she noticed him.
The man sat hunched on the sidewalk, hood low, a guitar case open at his feet. His hair, damp from the drizzle, was an unremarkable shade of mousy brown. Coins clinked as passersby tossed in spare change without stopping, or glancing at him. His fingers brushed lazily over the strings, coaxing a melody that didn’t belong in the rain and traffic—it belonged somewhere warm, somewhere without worries.
Clara slowed. She didn’t have much, but she reached into her bag and pulled out the sandwich she’d packed that morning and never touched. Peanut butter on slightly stale bread. Hardly worth sharing, but it was all she had.
“Here,” she said softly, placing it beside him.
The man lifted his gaze, and for a second, she caught his eyes—striking, sharp blue beneath the shadow of his hood. Something flickered there, quick and unreadable, before he gave the faintest nod.
She smiled, small and embarrassed, and hurried on.
Her kindness was automatic, an instinct she didn’t question. She didn’t stop to wonder why his hands, though rough, looked more like a man’s who worked at a desk, not a man on a subway corner. She also missed the watch—half-hidden by his sleeve—that was far too expensive for someone begging in the rain.
What she did notice was the way her chest felt lighter, just for having given.
By the time she reached the corner, her phone buzzed. A text from her stepmother.
Julia needs a ride tonight. Don’t be late.
No “please,” no “thank you.” Just another order, as if Clara’s time existed solely for others to use. She shoved the phone into her bag, pressing her lips together to keep the frustration from spilling out.
She had barely taken three steps when she collided with someone.
“Oh!” The word slipped out as her portfolio went flying, sketches scattering across the wet pavement.
“I’ve got it.”
The voice was low and steady. A pair of strong arms swooped down to scoop her drawings from the pavement before the rain could ruin them. Clara crouched, her cheeks burning as strangers streamed past, oblivious to her spilled life.
“Thank you,” she murmured softly, reaching for the papers.
When their fingers brushed, she looked up—and froze.
It was him. The man at the sidewalk. The one with the guitar and the piercing blue eyes. Up close, his features were even more arresting. He had a sharp jawline, a faint stubble, eyes that seemed to pierce through her.
He handed her the last sketch—a rough portrait of a mother and child she’d drawn months ago. For a second, his gaze lingered on it, unreadable, before he gave it back.
“You should keep these safe,” he said.
Clara blinked, caught off guard by the quiet authority in his tone. As though he was used to giving orders.
“I will,” she said, clutching the portfolio to her chest.
He gave a single nod, then stepped back, disappearing into the crowd as quickly as he’d appeared.
Clara stood there for a moment, heart still thudding. Something about him unsettled her, though not in a way that made her want to run. Instead, it made her curious—like a melody she couldn’t quite get out of her head.
And for the first time in a long time, Clara felt as though her story had shifted, even if she couldn’t explain or understand how.
Clara stood there for a moment, heart still thudding as she clutched her portfolio. Something about the encounter had left her unsettled but she shook it off. Life wasn’t going to pause just because she’d bumped into a stranger with striking blue eyes. She started walking again, unaware that the man she had just met was Adrian Cole—the city’s most elusive billionaire, hiding in plain sight.
Her phone buzzed again. Another impatient text from Margaret. Clara exhaled, squared her shoulders, and hurried on. She had a demand to meet, as always.