Talia
Talia walked into the warm, fragrant kitchen, her mind in chaos. She felt giddy. It was a strange, light, and frightening feeling that she almost didn't trust.
She had just spent three hours with a man who was, in every way, a living contradiction. The ghost, the king, the colleague. And he was nice.
Elara sat at the kitchen table, a glass of red wine in one hand and a smug smile on her face. She didn't look up from her newspaper.
"So," Elara said, that single word full of implication.
"So, what?" Talia replied, trying to sound casual. With her back to her aunt, she opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. Her hands were still shaking, and she noted this with annoyance.
"So, three and a half hours for 'coffee.' He didn't kidnap you. You're not crying. Your face is pink." Elara finally lowered the paper, her eyes sharp and playful. "Was he a stalker, or was he Prince Charming?"
"He's not a stalker," Talia mumbled, her face getting warm. She sat down, turning her back to the wall where the landline phone was connected. She suddenly realized the phone was tuned to a live line. "And he's not Prince Charming."
"Then what is he?"
Talia sighed, her defenses weakening. There was no hiding from Elara. "He's nice, Auntie. Really nice. His name is Jadon."
She spilled everything. The whole, impossible, 'fated' story. How he worked in the spice industry. How he was from London. How he was on leave to clear his head from his family and his demanding job.
And then came the final, unbelievable detail.
"And he's staying in Didsbury," Talia added, her voice a whisper.
Elara's wine glass stopped halfway to her mouth. Her jaw dropped. "No."
"Yes."
"Talia, no," Elara said, her eyes widening in superstitious awe. "In Didsbury?"
"That's what he said!"
"It's bashert," Elara whispered, her hand flying to her chest. "It's fate! I knew it! The market, the restaurant, the universe is shouting at you, Talia! A handsome, mysterious, successful man who shares your passion, and he's plaguing you! It's the most romantic thing I've ever heard!"
Talia's hopeful smile, which had been growing under Elara's excitement, suddenly faded. "But he's..."
"He's what? Brooding? Perfect. Those are the best ones to fix."
"No," Talia said quietly. The central, painful point returned, deflating her. "He didn't ask for my number."
Elara's ecstatic expression froze. She set her glass down with a slow, deliberate click. "...What?"
"He didn't ask for my number," Talia repeated, the humiliation washing over her again. "We talked for three hours. He knew I was leaving. And he just said, 'See you around.' And he let me walk away."
Elara was silent, her brow furrowed as she processed this new, contradictory information.
"Oh," she said, her voice flat.
"Yeah. 'Oh,'" Talia replied, slumping in her chair. "I don't get it. He's not interested. Or he was just being polite. Or..."
"Or," Elara said, her gaze sharpening, "he's smart. Very smart. He's not rushing. He's letting you breathe. He's mysterious. He's in control. He's letting you wonder."
"Or," Talia said, her heart sinking, "he's married."
The word hit the table like a lead weight.
"Oh, God," Talia breathed, her hand flying to her mouth. "Auntie, he's probably married. The 'sad eyes.' The 'leave' from his family. The secretive car. He's a married man on a break. I was just his holiday flirtation."
"Talia, bubbeleh, don't jump—"
"No, it makes perfect sense!" Talia insisted, her brief happiness turning sour. "That's why he didn't ask! He's scum. He's a liar."
She had almost been happy. And, as always, the world had pulled the rug out from under her.
Jadon
"...he's married."
The words, a distant whisper, shot through the black earpiece and hit Jadon's brain like a bullet.
He recoiled, his chair scraping loudly against the stone floor of his penthouse.
No. No, no, no.
He had been listening. He had heard Talia walk in. He had felt a dark pride as she told her aunt that he was nice.
He had heard Elara declare it fate, and he had scoffed. He was the one creating this fate. He had control.
Then, with one sentence, he lost everything.
His one calculated move—not asking for her number—had backfired. It hadn't made him smart. It had made him, in her eyes, a liar. A cheater. A married man.
The one thing he was not.
"Damn it," he snarled, slamming his fist onto the cold desk.
He listened to Talia's voice, now filled with bitter despair, as she and Elara spun this new and false narrative. He was scum.
He couldn't fix this. He couldn't call her—he didn't have her number, and she had no idea who he was. He couldn't text her. He couldn't just show up and say, "By the way, I'm not married!"
In trying to control everything, he had introduced a wild card. He couldn't control her thoughts. He couldn't control her assumptions.
And this assumption was poison. It would make her build a wall against him. It would make her despise him in a mundane way. He wasn't a mysterious king; he was just another faithless husband.
He had to fix this. Now.
He listened, his jaw clenched and his mind racing.
"...He's probably... God, he's probably staying in Didsbury with his mistress!" Talia cried, her voice thick.
"Okay, stop," Elara's voice interrupted, firm. "You're spiraling. You don't know any of this. We are not going to let this ghost ruin your holiday. Tomorrow," she declared, her tone brightening, "we are going to be normal. We are going for a walk. A long walk in Fletcher Moss gardens. 10 AM. We will breathe fresh air, we won't talk about mysterious, probably-married men, and we will clear our heads. Agreed?"
Jadon heard Talia's long, shaky sigh. "...Agreed. God. I need to not think about him..."
Jadon ripped the earpiece from his ear, the sudden silence of the penthouse deafening.
Fletcher Moss. 10 AM.
He had his target.
He wouldn't just be there. He had to prove the "married" theory wrong. He had to be available. He had to be Jadon, the single, on-leave colleague.
He had one shot. He had to create the next fated encounter. And this time, he had to be ready. He would have to do the one thing he'd avoided.
He would have to get her number.