chapter 2
1444 Words
Manuela woke up to the sound of the city arguing with itself.
Car horns blared below her apartment window, a siren wailed somewhere far too close for comfort, and her alarm vibrated against the nightstand like it was angry she hadn’t already gotten up. She groaned, rolling onto her side, burying her face into her pillow.
Then she remembered.
The rain.
The collision.
The stranger with the calm voice and eyes that felt like they’d seen too much.
William.
She sat up abruptly, heart thudding. For a moment, she wondered if she’d imagined him. New York had a way of blurring reality when exhaustion mixed with hope. But then she saw it—the coffee cup on her desk, untouched, with a café logo she didn’t recognize.
She exhaled slowly.
So he was real.
Manuela dragged herself out of bed, feet cold against the wooden floor. Her apartment was small, lived-in, and unapologetically hers. Sketches covered the walls, some taped crookedly, others framed because she’d once believed they were “good enough.” A half-finished illustration glowed on her laptop screen, waiting for inspiration she hadn’t yet found.
She moved through her morning routine on autopilot—shower, messy bun, oversized sweater, jeans with paint stains she could never quite remove. Still, her mind refused to settle. It replayed the way William had looked at her when she talked about her work. Not politely interested. Not distracted.
Present.
At work—or what passed for it—Manuela spent the morning juggling client emails and revisions. “Can you make it pop more?” one message read. Another asked for changes that contradicted the previous instructions entirely. She sighed, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Her phone buzzed.
An unknown number.
She frowned, then answered. “Hello?”
“Manuela.” His voice slid through the line, calm and unmistakable.
Her stomach dropped. “William?”
“I hope I didn’t interrupt,” he said. “You mentioned you’d be working today.”
“I—no. It’s fine.” She leaned back in her chair, suddenly aware of how fast her heart was beating. “How did you get my number?”
“You wrote it on the receipt.” A pause. “In case I turned out to be a serial killer, I assume.”
She laughed before she could stop herself. The sound surprised her—it had been a while since laughter came so easily. “Something like that.”
“I was wondering,” he continued, “if you’d like to have dinner tonight.”
The word dinner hung between them, heavier than coffee, heavier than coincidence.
Manuela hesitated. This was how stories started—the kind her mother warned her about. Rich men. Fast connections. Promises wrapped in charm. And yet, something about William didn’t feel rushed. It felt… intentional.
“I don’t really do fancy,” she said carefully.
“I don’t either,” he replied. “We can keep it simple.”
She glanced around her apartment, at her clutter, her unfinished dreams, her life that didn’t fit neatly into anyone else’s expectations. “Okay,” she said softly. “Dinner.”
“Good,” William said. “I’ll see you at seven.”
When the call ended, Manuela stared at her phone for a long moment. Then she laughed again, shaking her head.
“Get it together,” she muttered to herself.
Across the city, William stood in the glass-walled office that bore his name without ever saying it aloud. Assistants moved outside like clockwork, schedules tightening, deals waiting. He ignored them all.
For the first time in a long while, his mind wasn’t on money, mergers, or control.
It was on a woman with paint on her jeans and fire in her voice—
and the unsettling feeling that meeting her wasn’t an accident at all.
Manuela woke up to the sound of the city arguing with itself.
Car horns collided beneath her window, someone shouted an insult that echoed between buildings, and her alarm buzzed like it had a personal vendetta against her. She groaned and rolled onto her side, pulling the thin blanket over her head.
Then it hit her.
The rain.
The collision.
The stranger.
William.
Her eyes flew open. She sat up too fast, the room tilting for a second as her heart started pounding like she’d been caught doing something wrong. For a long moment, she just sat there, staring at the opposite wall, half-expecting the memory to fade like a dream.
It didn’t.
Her gaze drifted to the desk by the window. The coffee cup sat there, untouched, the café logo printed neatly on the side. Proof. Solid, annoying proof that the moment had been real.
She exhaled slowly, pressing her fingers to her temples.
“Of course,” she murmured. “Of course that would happen.”
Manuela swung her legs out of bed and padded across the floor. Her apartment greeted her the same way it always did—quiet, cramped, and honest. Sketchbooks lay open where she’d abandoned them the night before. Pencils were scattered like fallen soldiers. A half-finished illustration glowed faintly on her laptop screen, waiting for a version of her that felt less tired.
She showered quickly, letting the warm water steady her thoughts, but even then, her mind wandered. She replayed the way William had looked at her—not like someone amused by a clumsy stranger, but like someone genuinely curious.
That was what unsettled her most.
Most people skimmed. They listened just enough to reply. He had listened as her words mattered.
She dressed simply—oversized sweater, worn jeans, boots that had survived more New York winters than she cared to count. She tied her hair into a messy bun, catching her reflection in the mirror for a brief second.
“You’re not getting attached,” she told herself firmly. “You don’t even know him.”
Still, her chest felt oddly tight as she grabbed her bag and headed out.
The city swallowed her the moment she stepped outside. Subway stairs, rushing crowds, the familiar chaos that made her feel small and anonymous in equal measure. She liked it that way. Being unseen was safer.
By mid-morning, she was at her desk, juggling emails and client demands. One message wanted revisions. Another wanted something entirely different from what they’d asked for yesterday. She sighed, rubbing her eyes.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
She frowned. Normally she ignored those. But something—a quiet pull she didn’t want to examine too closely—made her answer.
“Hello?”
“Manuela.”
Her breath caught. That voice. Calm, steady, unmistakable.
“William?” she asked, incredulous.
“Yes.” A pause, almost like he was smiling. “I hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
“No, I—” She leaned back in her chair, heart racing. “It’s fine. I’m just working.”
“You mentioned you’d be busy today,” he said. “I didn’t want to assume.”
She swallowed. “How did you get my number?”
“You wrote it on the receipt,” he replied easily. “I assumed it was intentional.”
Heat crept up her neck. “I thought… just in case.”
“Just in case,” he echoed, amused. “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner tonight.”
Dinner.
The word settled between them, heavier than she expected. This wasn’t coffee. This wasn’t a polite conversation after an accident. This was an invitation.
Her instincts flared. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t fall into anything that felt too easy, too smooth. Men like William didn’t usually exist in her world for long.
“I don’t really do fancy,” she said carefully.
“I don’t either,” he replied without missing a beat. “We can keep it simple.”
She glanced around her workspace—unfinished art, cold coffee, a life built on hustle and hope. “Okay,” she said, softer now. “Dinner.”
“Seven?” he asked.
“That works.”
“I’ll see you then.”
When the call ended, Manuela stared at her phone for a long moment. Her reflection stared back at her from the dark screen, eyes wide with something dangerously close to anticipation.
Across the city, William stood in a glass office high above the streets. Assistants moved around him, schedules tight, conversations urgent. He ignored them all.
For once, his mind wasn’t on numbers or negotiations.
It was on a woman who didn’t know who he was—
And how rare that felt.
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