Chapter 1 — The Mistaken Blind Date

Maeve

The restaurant was a symphony of understated elegance, where the clinking of glasses, hushed exchanges, and soft bursts of laughter merged into an ambiance of exclusivity. The faint aroma of truffle oil and aged wine lingered like a whispered promise, blending with the sharper tang of polished wood and leather. Maeve smoothed the lines of her pencil skirt as she stepped inside, her heels clicking in precise, deliberate rhythm against the gleaming floor. She paused near the entrance, scanning the room with an air of practiced confidence, though her stomach was a tangle of unease.

The patrons—polished, self-assured, utterly at ease in this setting—seemed worlds removed from her. Chic suits and designer dresses adorned faces lit by the low amber glow of candlelight, their muted conversations exuding the kind of effortless sophistication Maeve had never quite mastered. She swallowed against the knot in her throat, her fingers brushing over the strap of her clutch as if anchoring herself.

Blind dates weren’t her thing. Neither were places like this—where the elegance felt oppressive, the air heavy with unspoken judgments. But her best friend had been adamant. "You need someone boring for once, Maeve. Reliable. Someone who doesn't come with drama." Harmless, she'd promised. And maybe boring wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. At least it would be predictable. Manageable.

“Table for two under Lawson,” she said to the maître d’, her voice steady despite the nerves tickling at her edges. The man inclined his head in silent acknowledgment and gestured toward the back of the room.

As she followed him, Maeve’s gaze flitted over the scene around her. There was an intimacy to the place, a quiet luxury that felt both alluring and suffocating. Yet something else hovered just beneath the surface—a tension she couldn’t quite place. The air seemed heavier the farther she walked, the pools of dim light fading into shadowy corners. She hesitated mid-step, her instincts prickling—a flicker of unease she couldn’t ignore.

She could leave. Turn around, grab an Uber, and chalk this up to an expensive misstep. But her curiosity—always her most reckless companion—tightened its grip, nudging her forward. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

The table came into view, and her steps faltered. The man waiting for her was not the harmless lawyer her best friend had described. There was nothing harmless about him.

He looked up as she approached, and the room seemed to condense, the edges blurring as his gaze locked onto hers. Jet-black hair framed a face carved with elegance and severity, the faint scar along his cheekbone only enhancing his visceral intensity. His blue-gray eyes were cold and calculating, the kind of gaze that didn’t just see you—it stripped you bare, leaving no room for pretense.

“Maeve Lawson.” His voice was low, a silk-wrapped rumble edged with steel. The faintest trace of an accent—Russian, perhaps—made her name sound foreign, unfamiliar. He rose smoothly, his movements deliberate, and pulled out her chair. “Please. Sit.”

Her instincts screamed for her to turn and leave, but something about him—something magnetic and unsettling—rooted her to the spot. “You’re not…” she began, her words faltering under the weight of the moment.

“Not who you expected?” he finished for her, a faint smile curving his lips. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No. But I assure you, this is no mistake.”

Her pulse quickened, a warning she couldn’t ignore. “If this isn’t a mistake,” she said, her voice sharpening as she fought to regain her composure, “then what exactly is it?”

He gestured toward the chair again, his expression implacable, as if her defiance amused him. Reluctantly, she sat, her spine straight, her hands folded in her lap to still their faint tremor. He took his own seat with the same unhurried grace, his piercing gaze never leaving hers.

“A meeting,” he said finally, his tone so calm it made her skin prickle. “A conversation. I’m told you’re quite adept at both.”

Maeve tilted her head, her wit slipping in as a shield. “And flattery will get you… exactly nowhere with me.”

“Good,” he replied, his tone as cool as his eyes. “I’m not here to flatter you.”

“Then why are you here?” she pressed, her voice cutting through the tension. “And while we’re at it—who exactly are you?”

He didn’t answer immediately, letting the silence stretch between them until it felt like a living thing. Finally, he spoke. “Caine Volkov. And we share a mutual acquaintance.”

The name carried a weight she couldn’t place, though it sent a tremor rippling through her chest. “And who would that be?” she asked, her voice tighter now.

“Maxwell Huxston.”

Her breath caught, and it took everything she had not to let it show. “He’s my boss,” she said carefully. “That’s hardly a mutual acquaintance.”

Caine’s faint smile widened, though it held no warmth. “Oh, I think it’s a little more complicated than that.”

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You will,” he said, leaning forward slightly. The soft flicker of the candlelight between them cast sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing the predator lurking beneath his elegance. “Tell me, Maeve. How much do you trust Maxwell?”

The question hit her like a blow, and for a moment, she couldn’t mask her surprise. “I trust him enough,” she said, injecting her voice with a deliberate indifference she didn’t feel.

“Enough to risk yourself for him?” The edge in his voice sharpened, dark and dangerous.

A cold shiver ran through her. “I don’t see how that’s relevant—or any of your business.”

“It’s very much my business,” he countered, leaning back and steepling his fingers, his calm demeanor more unnerving than anger would have been. “And soon, it will be yours too.”

Maeve’s pulse raced as the weight of his words settled over her. The air between them was charged, suffocating, and she knew she needed to leave. Now. She pushed back her chair, the scrape of wood against wood startlingly loud in the quiet.

“All right,” she said, her voice firm, though her hands betrayed a slight tremor. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not interested. This has been… unsettling, to say the least.”

She stood, clutching her purse tightly, but before she could take a step, he rose too. His hand closed lightly around her wrist—not harsh, but firm enough to stop her. The contact sent a jolt of something sharp and electric through her, though she couldn’t decide if it was fear or something else entirely.

“Sit,” he said softly, his voice carrying a quiet command that made her stomach twist.

“Yes,” she said, her green eyes blazing, “we are.”

For a moment, the tension crackled like a live wire. Then he released her wrist, stepping aside with an almost mocking bow. “As you wish.”

Maeve didn’t look back as she strode toward the bar, her steps quick and determined. Her breath came shallow, her heart pounding. Every instinct she had screamed at her to get out of there, to put as much distance as possible between herself and the man still seated at the table.

She made it to the bar before the world tilted. The golden light around her blurred, and her knees buckled as the polished floor seemed to rise toward her. Her hand clutched at the counter, but her grip slipped as her strength faltered. The faint scent of leather filled her senses just before she felt a hand steady her.

“You should have stayed,” Caine’s voice murmured near her ear, low and unhurried, a dark promise woven into the words. “It would have been easier.”

The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was his silhouette, sharp and inescapable against the soft haze of candlelight.