Talia had always owned practical things. Her clothes were meant for working, grinding, and surviving.
Elara would hear none of it.
She took Talia to a quiet, exclusive boutique in the city center. The space had more room than clothes, and a single dress on a mannequin cost more than Talia's monthly rent.
"Auntie, no," Talia whispered, gripping her bag. "This is... insane. We can't."
"We can," Elara replied, her voice filled with newfound excitement. "Your mother signed a contract that makes her very successful. You are her partner. You are rich, bubbeleh. Now, act like it. Just for tonight."
With a keen eye for luxury, Elara pulled a dress from the rack.
It wasn't a ballgown. It was worse. It was a slip of dark emerald-green silk, with a neckline that dipped low enough to suggest something, and a cut that flowed over a woman's body like water.
"Try it," Elara commanded.
Feeling like a lamb led to slaughter, Talia went into the plush dressing room. She slipped on the dress. The silk felt cool against her skin, almost weightless.
She looked in the mirror.
She didn't recognize the woman looking back.
The girl from the shop, the "haunted Victorian child," was gone. In her place was a woman. The deep, jewel-toned green made her amber eyes shine. The dress hinted at curves she had kept hidden under her father's old cardigans. She didn't look like a fraud. She looked like a promise.
A slow, tentative, and dazzling smile touched her lips.
"Well," Elara said, appearing behind her, eyes shining. "That'll do."
Now, two hours later, Talia was rising.
They were in a private glass-walled elevator, moving up Manchester's tallest, newest tower. The city lights fell away beneath them, like a carpet of glittering diamonds.
"Auntie," Talia whispered, hands clasped in front of her. The silk felt cool under her palms. "Where are we going?"
"Astra," Elara said, as if that were all the explanation needed. "The only place to be."
The elevator doors opened not into a lobby, but directly into the restaurant.
Talia caught her breath.
Astra wasn't just a restaurant; it was a statement. Perched on the 50th floor, it was a temple of glass, darkness, and silence. The walls were black marble, the floors dark, polished wood. The entire west-facing side featured a floor-to-ceiling window offering a view of the sparkling night below.
Tables were spaced far apart, each a small, private island in a sea of shadows, lit only by a single, dim light resembling a star. The clientele whispered, their voices low, their jewelry catching the light.
This was not just luxury. This was power.
"I... I'm not dressed for this," Talia stammered, feeling the old insecurities creeping back.
"You are the best-dressed woman here," Elara said, her voice smooth and confident. She moved ahead, her own colorful silk wrap flowing behind her, and gave her name to a maître d' who resembled a diplomat.
"Madam Levine. A pleasure. Your table is ready."
They were led up a small, floating glass staircase to a semi-private mezzanine. A corner table, surrounded on two sides by the shimmering void.
Talia sat down, her heart racing. She was just a spice-grinder from Marylebone, and now she was sitting in the sky.
"Now," Elara said, picking up the wine list. "We begin."
Jadon had arrived an hour earlier.
He was not on the mezzanine. He was on the main floor, but he occupied a place few others could be: Table One.
It was his table. He owned it. He owned the entire building. Astra was his personal project, the crown jewel of his northern Asher Group holdings.
The table sat in a deep alcove of black stone, hidden from the main floor but with a perfect view of the entire room and the city. It was a throne in the shadows.
He was on his second glass of Macallan 25. The whisky tasted smooth but carried a hint of ash.
He felt like the lonely god he had expected to be.
Staring at the city, a shimmering map of a world beyond his reach, he suddenly heard a sound that felt out of place.
A loud, booming laugh full of joy.
Jadon's head snapped up, his expression sharp. Laughter in Astra was rare. His clientele was serious people, and serious people rarely laughed.
He glanced toward the mezzanine.
Then he saw her.
He noticed Elara first, a vibrant splash of color in the darkness of his restaurant.
And then he saw her.
His hand, holding the glass, froze midway to his lips.
It was the woman from the market. But it wasn't just her.
It was as if a painting he'd found in a dusty attic had been restored and hung in the center of the Met.
She was radiant.
Her dark hair tumbled over her head, tendrils framing a face that seemed newly alive, not haunted. Her skin glowed under the low lights. And the dress—the emerald-green silk—clung to her figure in a way that was both elegant and striking.
He had spent two days fixated on a girl in a hoodie.
Now, he was looking at a goddess.
He realized it was his doing. His money. His "miracle." He had paid for that dress. He had paid for that smile. He had brought her here, to his restaurant, a beautiful, vibrant, impossible dream.
And he, the villain, was trapped in the shadows, unable to say her name.
The jealousy he felt for Matthias seemed weak compared to this raw, possessive urge. He wanted to march right up to her. He wanted to possess that smile. He wanted to be the one sitting across from her, not her aunt.
He wanted his creation.
Talia felt giddy. The champagne—real, French, and costing £30 a glass—had gone straight to her head.
"I... I feel," she laughed, "like Cinderella. And at midnight, I'm going to turn back into a girl covered in turmeric dust."
"No more," Elara replied, raising her glass. "This is your life now, Tali. You're a boss. You're a success. You deserve this. Now, look around. Enjoy the view. Maybe find a handsome prince. This place is full of them."
"Oh, Auntie, please," Talia laughed, blushing. But she felt brave. She let her gaze scan the powerful, hushed room below.
It was all shadows and expensive suits. Men who resembled... him.
And then she froze.
In the darkest corner of the restaurant, in a throne-like alcove, she saw him.
The man from the market.
He wasn't in a hoodie. He wore an elegant dark cashmere sweater. His dark hair was neat and sharp. He sat alone, a glass of dark liquid in his hand. And he was staring...
...not at the city. Not at his phone.
He was looking right at her, with that same intense, arctic-blue-eyed gaze.
Talia's heart stopped. The champagne in her veins turned to ice.
How?
It seemed statistically impossible. The man from the 5 AM market. The "brooding" man in the hoodie.
He was here. At the most exclusive, expensive restaurant in the city. And he didn't look like a customer. He looked like he owned the place. He looked like a king.
A cold, sad, and impossibly handsome king.
Their eyes locked across the dark, silent room. He didn't smile. He didn't look away. He simply held her gaze.
A silent, impossible, and terrifying collision.