The world had become a hostile and illogical place.

  For Kaelen Vance, this was the most intolerable state of existence. The universe operated on principles—cause and effect, data that could be modelled and understood, systems that responded predictably to intervention. It was an order he had mastered, one he could influence with a phone call or a well-placed investment. His mind was his greatest asset, a machine of logic and analysis that had built an empire from nothing.

  It had all started with Meredith Walsh, his head of PR—a sharp-edged woman in her forties who had been with him since the early days and wasn't afraid to speak her mind. She'd marched into his office three weeks ago, planted her hands on his desk, and delivered what she called "a mandatory mental health directive."

  "You're going to kill yourself with work," she'd said flatly. "You look like death. You move like death. You probably dream about death. When was the last time you did something normal? Something human?"

  He'd stared at her, unblinking. "I had a meeting yesterday."

  "That's not normal. That's work. Normal is coffee shops. Normal is sitting in a park like a regular person who doesn't own a biotechnology empire. Normal is—" She'd waved her hands vaguely. "Living. Just for an afternoon. Go to that new place everyone's talking about. The Grind. Apparently, they have decent espresso and an atmosphere that doesn't scream 'corporate overlord.' Consider it market research on your investment."

  He'd dismissed her, of course. But the idea had lodged itself somewhere in the back of his mind, and a few days later, after another sleepless night haunted by dreams he couldn't remember upon waking, he'd found himself standing on a subway platform like some ordinary commuter, heading toward a coffee shop he had no business visiting.

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  It was a lovely afternoon. The kind of afternoon that made the city almost bearable. He'd gotten off the subway a few blocks early, wanting to stretch his legs, to feel the sun on his face like a normal person. He was crossing the street, not thinking about anything in particular, when he saw them.

  Two women walking out of the cafe.

  The blonde one was a riot of colour—pink-streaked hair, a bohemian dress, more bracelets than anyone could reasonably wear. She was talking animatedly, gesturing with her whole body, the kind of person who took up space without apology.

  But Kaelen didn't see her.

  He saw the other one.

  Dark hair, long and wavy, cascading over her shoulders like a river of ink. Skin so pale it seemed almost luminous, like snow catching moonlight. And when she smiled at something the blonde said—a real smile, warm and unguarded—her eyes crinkled at the corners.

  Her eyes.

  He stopped dead in the middle of the crosswalk. A taxi blared its horn behind him. Someone shouted. He didn't hear any of it.

  Those eyes. He knew those eyes. He had been seeing them in his dreams for as long as he could remember—ancient, knowing, filled with a sorrow and a love so profound it hurt to witness. They were the eyes of the woman who appeared at the edge of his consciousness every time he closed his own, the woman who reached for him across impossible distances, the woman whose name he could never remember upon waking.

  And here she was. Real. Flesh and blood. Walking out of a coffee shop in the middle of the afternoon like she had every right to exist in his world.

  She glanced in his direction—just a flicker, just a moment—and then the blonde tugged her arm and they disappeared around a corner.

  Kaelen stood there for a long time, people flowing around him like water around a stone. When he finally moved, it wasn't to go home. It was to find a spot across the street where he could wait. Where he could watch.