Chapter 1 – The Wrong Delivery
"A single wrong turn may alter the course of an ordinary morning — and sometimes, a life."
The morning had begun as most of Robert Murphy's mornings did — with a clang of dishes, the soft hum of a coffee grinder, and the gentle bickering of kitchen staff who had long since learned to read one another's tempers by the sound of their sighs. The little restaurant, Murphy & Sons, was tucked in a cobbled corner of the old district — a relic of his late father's stubborn dream and his mother's patient hands.
Robert, now heir and reluctant commander of this culinary fortress, had scarcely slept. The accounts were late; the new wine supplier had sent the wrong invoice; and yet, as ever, the deliveries had to go out before noon.
By seven, the city shimmered beneath a thin veil of sunlight. Robert loaded his van with quiet resolve, his breath misting in the cool air. The parcel — a polished oak case containing a rare Saint-Émilion Grand Cru, worth more than a month of his profits — sat beside him like a guest of honour. He checked the address twice.
Cross Mansion, Ravenswood Lane.
He knew the name. Everyone did. The Cross family estate was a legend of glass and granite, perched upon the city's northern hills. Its owner, Elena Cross, was a woman whose face had graced countless screens — philanthropist, professor of economics, heiress of an empire her ancestors had carved from marble and money.
She was also, by all accounts, unapproachable.
But Robert was not delivering to her — merely to the mansion. Or so he believed.
The drive wound through avenues lined with oak and whispering willows. The farther he travelled, the quieter the world became. When he reached the wrought-iron gates, they stood open, as though expecting him.
The mansion beyond was a study in restrained grandeur. Its walls, pale as cream, reflected the morning light with a sort of distant pride. Gardens unfurled in measured perfection — roses disciplined into order, hedges cut to mathematical precision. Robert parked by the stone steps, feeling his boots scuff against a world that had never invited him in.
He lifted the oak case carefully, tracing the carved emblem on its lid. "Let's not embarrass ourselves now," he muttered to the box — half prayer, half joke — before ascending the steps.
At the door, he hesitated. The brass knocker was shaped like a lion's head, gleaming and fierce. He struck it once.
Silence.
Twice.
The sound echoed through unseen corridors.
And then — footsteps.
Light, measured, unmistakably feminine.
The door opened not to a servant, nor to a butler in starched black, but to a woman standing with the composed stillness of a portrait come to life.
She was perhaps in her early thirties, tall, slender, with hair as dark as ink and eyes the colour of winter rain. She wore a silk robe the shade of smoke, tied carelessly at the waist, as though she had been interrupted mid-thought rather than mid-rest. Her gaze fell on the man before her — his rolled-up sleeves, the faint dust on his boots, the wooden crate in his arms — and in that instant her brows lifted, just enough to betray surprise.
"Good morning," Robert began, forcing a smile that felt too wide for his face. "Delivery for Miss Elena Cross."
Her reply was soft, cool, and precise. "I am she."
The smile faltered. "Oh— well, that makes it easier then." He set the box gently on the marble floor. "One Grand Cru, as ordered. If you could just sign—"
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and he felt as though she could see the very thoughts forming behind his forehead.
"I ordered no such thing," she said. "Nor does my cellar require replenishment before the tenth of the month."
Robert blinked. "Then— perhaps it's for another Cross Mansion?"
She tilted her head. "There is no other Cross Mansion."
A moment of silence stretched between them, taut as violin string.
He pulled out the delivery slip, scanning it with growing dread.
Cross Mansion, Ravenswood Lane.
Signature required: Elena Cross.
He laughed softly — the nervous sort that only worsens the embarrassment. "Seems the universe enjoys a little mischief before breakfast."
Her tone sharpened, though not cruelly. "Mr…?"
"Murphy. Robert Murphy."
"Mr Murphy, I trust you understand that an unsummoned delivery of fine wine to a woman's private residence might appear… questionable."
He winced. "I promise, ma'am, I've no interest in anything questionable — only in getting this crate to its rightful owner before my supplier learns I've misplaced it."
Her lips curved — not quite a smile, rather an amused acknowledgment of his honesty. "Then you have my sympathy. The universe, as you said, does enjoy its mischief."
For a fleeting instant, something softened in her expression. Perhaps it was the faint fatigue beneath her eyes, or the way the sunlight touched the edges of her hair. She turned, gesturing lightly.
"You may set it on the side table. I shall have my assistant confirm the order."
He obeyed, stepping into the mansion. The scent of cedar and parchment filled the air — the perfume of old books and quiet intellect. Shelves climbed toward ceilings, lined with volumes in every tongue.
"You teach, don't you?" he asked, glancing around. "I've seen you — on one of those evening broadcasts. The Modern Mind and Market Dynamics, I think."
She looked over her shoulder, expression unreadable. "You watch economic debates?"
"Only when the remote's broken."
To his surprise, she laughed — a low, restrained sound that rippled like a secret escaping decorum.
"Honesty suits you, Mr Murphy," she said. "Most men attempt flattery first."
"I've tried that. Doesn't pair well with foot-in-mouth moments."
He had meant to leave then, but something in her manner — the faint intrigue that flickered behind her composure — held him captive.
"Tell me," she said at last, "does your restaurant make a habit of mistaken deliveries, or am I particularly fortunate?"
"Fortunate, perhaps. We seldom misplace a bottle, let alone a case. This one was meant for Mr Crawford, of 17 Ravens Court."
"Which is…" she paused, calculating. "Three miles east. A pity for Mr Crawford, though not for me. Saint-Émilion Grand Cru, you said?"
"Yes. 1998 vintage."
She glanced at the box again, eyes thoughtful. "My late father favoured that year."
Robert nodded, uncertain what to say. The air shifted — delicate, almost reverent.
He cleared his throat. "If you'd rather I take it back—"
"No." Her interruption was soft, yet decisive. "Leave it. It would be ungracious to return a gift fate has mistakenly offered."
Their gazes met. Something unspoken passed — curiosity, perhaps recognition of two very different lives momentarily aligned.
Minutes later, as he prepared to depart, she followed him to the threshold. The sunlight was warmer now, catching the silver at her wristwatch.
"Mr Murphy," she said, "should your supplier question you, tell him Lady Fortune herself intervened. He will forgive no one else."
He smiled. "And should Lady Fortune require dinner, she'll always have a table at Murphy & Sons."
Her brows lifted again, amusement flickering like candlelight. "Is that an invitation or a business strategy?"
"Both," he admitted.
She looked at him a moment longer — measuring, weighing, perhaps deciding whether this earnest young man was a fool or merely fearless. Then, with the faintest nod, she closed the door.
The echo of it lingered in the crisp air.
Robert stood for a while beside his van, staring at the mansion's pale façade. He could still hear her voice, cool as water over glass, and still feel the strange steadiness that had replaced his earlier panic.
He climbed into the driver's seat, muttering under his breath, "Well done, Murphy. First customer of the day, and you've managed to flirt with a billionaire."
As he turned the key, something caught his eye — a movement behind the upper-floor window. Elena Cross stood there, half-hidden by lace curtains, watching the van retreat down the lane. Her hand rested lightly on the sill, her mind elsewhere.
A faint smile ghosted across her lips — the kind reserved for puzzles not yet solved.
That evening, as the mansion sank into shadow, a sharp chime echoed through its marble hall. Elena glanced at her phone — a message from an unknown number:
"Miss Cross, I believe I may have delivered more than wine this morning.
If fate is indeed playing courier, shall I sign for it — or you?"
— R.M.
She stared at the message, half-startled, half-amused. Then, slowly, she typed a reply — but stopped before sending.
Outside, the wind rustled through the rose garden, scattering petals like whispers.
Somewhere in the city, Robert looked at his phone, waiting for the sound of a message that did not come.