Lies Between Us

Chapter Three

Curry’s POV

For me, it was just another day at Kane Enterprises—a renowned business empire built by my formidable father. An empire that will soon be mine.

I’d just wrapped up a high-stakes deal on the thirty-second floor, sealing it with a firm handshake and the quiet satisfaction of knowing we’d outmaneuvered three competitors without even breaking a sweat. The kind of move that would’ve made my old man proud—if only he were the kind of man who said that sort of thing.

Now, I head into the underground garage, tugging my tie loose with one hand while scrolling through a flurry of messages lighting up my phone with the other. The air smells faintly of oil and concrete, mixed with the distant rumble of thunder. A storm brewing both outside and, most likely, in tomorrow’s board meeting.

I’m halfway to my car, already thinking about the follow-up call I need to make, when suddenly, a body collides with mine

Soft and jarring. A woman stumbles into my side and lets out a startled yelp. Her bag swings wide, the contents spilling across the sidewalk in a chaotic scatter of paper, a sketchbook, and… was that a sandwich?

“Oh!” she gasps, clutching her documents like they might hold her together. She drops to her knees, hair falling in loose waves around her face. Her voice is shaky, her posture slouched like she’s trying to disappear.

Fuck! I should have seen her coming.

“Hey, it’s alright,” I say instantly, crouching beside her. “Are you okay?” I glance down and see the mess: her sketches, a folder stamped “Curriculum Vitae,” a crumpled napkin, and a few rough pencil drawings fanned out on the pavement. Her fingers are trembling as she tries to gather them all.

“I... I’m so sorry,” she whispers, voice cracking.

“Don’t be,” I say softly. “That was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” I steady her elbow gently. She’s close enough now that I catch a glimpse of her eyes—red-rimmed, wet lashes. She’s been crying. She did appear distraught.

She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to smile, but it falls short. “This has to be the worst day of my life,” she mutters, barely audible. “Three interviews. Three rejections. And now this.”

Something sharp tugs at my chest. I don’t know her, but there’s something painfully human in the way she says it, like she’s hanging on by a thread.

“That sounds brutal,” I say sincerely. “You’ve had a rough one.”

She nods miserably and wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, smearing what little mascara hadn’t already surrendered. “Coffee spill. Late bus. One of the interviewers called me ‘Rachel’ the entire time.”

“Yikes.” I crouch lower and begin helping her collect the loose papers. Her résumé lands near my shoe, and I grab it before the breeze takes it. “Here,” I say, handing it to her. “Rayna Williams?” I glance at her again, and something about her name clicks into place. I’ve heard it before. I just can’t place where.

She nods, eyes down. “That’s me. Klutz of the year.”

“Not a klutz,” I reply. “Just unlucky today.” I pass her the sketchbook next, flipping it closed before she can see I’d caught a glimpse of the inside. Delicate pencil strokes, architectural angles, flowers. She’s talented. Impressive.

She looks mortified. “God, my lunch is everywhere,” she mutters, grabbing the squashed sandwich and stuffing it back into a side pocket. “And now you probably think I’m some emotional trainwreck with bad handwriting.”

“Actually,” I say, offering a small smile, “I think you’re having a hell of a Monday and still holding it together better than most.”

That gets a short laugh from her, tight and slightly hoarse. “Thanks,” she says. “That’s… nice of you.”

“You sure you’re okay?” I ask again, more seriously this time.

She hesitates. Her eyes dart toward me, then down to her ruined sandwich. “I’ll live,” she says eventually. “Just didn’t expect to fall apart in front of a stranger.”

“You’re not falling apart,” I say quietly. “You’re just human. We all have those days.”

She looks at me, really looks, and there’s something behind her eyes. Guarded, calculating. But she covers it quickly with a breathy, embarrassed laugh. “Well… this is one way to leave an impression.”

I nod, standing up and offering her my hand. “Come on. Let me make it up to you. There’s a great Thai place not far from here. My treat.”

“What?” she asks, clearly startled. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” I insist. “Really.”

She hesitates, clearly unsure, but after a second, she takes my hand. “Okay,” she says softly. “Just dinner, though. No interview questions.”

I honestly did plan on interviewing her…just not formally. But, I grin. “Deal. However, if you happen to drop any more sketches, I might ask about those.”

She flushes slightly, eyes flicking down. “That was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” I say, and we both know I don’t believe her. Still, I lead her toward the parking lot, keeping her close like she might drift off into the street if I don’t.

I help her into the passenger seat of my car just as the first raindrops start falling. She smooths her skirt and murmurs a quiet thanks. I circle around, slide behind the wheel, and start the engine. The windshield wipers sweep into motion, their rhythm oddly soothing.

As we pull away from the curb, she sits quietly beside me, hands folded over her rescued CV. Her hair is still tousled, her cheeks flushed. I glance at her, and for a moment, I see not the mess she made or the chaos she walked into—but the poise she’s trying so hard to fake. The way she’s fighting to stay composed. It hits me harder than I expect.

I don’t know why I’m doing this—taking a strange girl to dinner after a five-second disaster. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But as she turns to the window, lost in thought, I realize something:

I don’t want the evening to end just yet.