A soul on fire

The bell above the café door chimed, but Clara didn't look up. She was too busy balancing a tray loaded with three caramel lattes and a double-shot espresso, her mind racing against the rent notice sitting on her kitchen table. She turned too sharply around the corner of the wooden counter. Clatter. Hot liquid splashed across a crisp, charcoal-gray tailored suit. Clara gasped, dropping her napkin holder as she stared in horror at the dark stain blooming across the expensive fabric. "I am so, so sorry!" Clara blurted out, grabbing a handful of paper napkins and dabbing frantically at the man's chest. "My hand slipped, the floor was wet—I can pay for the dry cleaning! Or buy you a new jacket?" A large, warm hand caught her wrist, stopping her frantic motions. Clara froze and looked up. The man standing before her was tall, with sharp jawline features, cold gray eyes, and an expression carved entirely from ice. Yet, despite the ruined suit, he didn't yell. He just looked down at her with an intense, unreadable gaze. "Keep the napkins," a deep, smooth voice replied. "And look where you're going next time." Before Clara could apologize again, the man stepped past her, walking out into the rainy morning without a backward glance. A sleek black town car idled at the curb, waiting for him. Clara let out a long breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't know who he was, but as she picked up the spilled ceramic cup, she found a heavy silver cufflink lying on the floor near her shoe. It was engraved with a sharp, elegant letter: V