Malachi arrived at the coffee shop twenty minutes early.
He told himself it was because he wanted to secure a good table—somewhere private, somewhere they could talk without being overheard. But the truth was simpler than that.
He was anxious.
Malachi King, the man who commanded rooms with a look, who made grown men tremble with a word, who'd built an empire on fear and respect—was anxious about a coffee date.
He ordered two drinks: a black coffee for himself and a caramel macchiato with extra foam for her. He'd noticed what she ordered at the club bar between dances. He noticed everything about her.
The barista handed him both cups, and Malachi settled into a corner booth with a clear view of the entrance. He checked his phone. Checked the time. Tried not to look like a man who'd bee
