"Caroline, stay down!"
The crystal chandelier shattered above her head, raining glass as chaos erupted inside the Rutherford Hotel ballroom. Gunfire cracked through the air—three warning shots into the domed ceiling—and five masked assailants fanned out, waving rifles and barking orders.
Caroline Monroe's body dropped instinctively to the floor, heart hammering in her throat. Her hand reached for Iris Caldwell, who trembled beside the grand piano, still wearing her performance gown.
"Don't move!" one of the gunmen shouted, grabbing a server by the collar and hurling him into a row of chairs.
People screamed. Women in evening gowns crawled beneath banquet tables. Cell phones were slapped from trembling hands.
A tall man in a gray ski mask strode to the microphone and fired one more shot—clean into a champagne tower. Glass exploded. Silence followed.
"Now that I've got your attention," the leader drawled, "this is a robbery. Stay calm, stay quiet, and no one gets hurt."
Caroline dared a glance toward Mason.
He was already moving.
At the far end of the ballroom, her fiancé Mason Rutherford—impeccably dressed in a charcoal tux—lunged at one of the smaller gunmen trying to secure the exits. A scuffle broke out, fists flying, a gun skittering across the marble.
The masked leader turned, amused. "Well, well. The young Mr. Rutherford showing off for the cameras."
Another gunman grabbed Mason and shoved him against a wall, but not before he managed to rip the ski mask off the smaller thug. A baby-faced man winced, trying to cover his identity.
"Big mistake, rich boy," the leader sneered. "You want this one back alive?"
Mason's eyes flicked toward the ballroom, scanning the crowd. "What do you want?"
"A trade," the leader said casually, resting the barrel of his rifle on his shoulder. "We take him back, and you choose someone to go free. Just one. Everyone else stays put until we get what we came for."
Murmurs erupted.
"You're sick," Mason said, voice low.
"Nope," the man replied. "Efficient. So, who's it going to be, Mr. High Society?"
Caroline froze.
She could feel everyone watching Mason now—the board members, the journalists, the wedding planners still holding checklists. Even the security guards, disarmed and helpless, waited.
Time stretched.
Please look at me, Caroline begged silently. Pick me. We're engaged.
Mason's jaw clenched. His hand curled into a fist at his side.
"Iris Caldwell," he said.
The name was a bullet.
Caroline blinked.
Iris blinked.
The gunmen nodded. "Pianist girl, on your feet."
"I—I don't—" Iris stammered.
Caroline's heart plummeted into her stomach as two gunmen grabbed Iris gently, almost respectfully, and led her toward the ballroom's side door.
Caroline looked at Mason, stunned. "You're choosing her?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't look.
He followed Iris with his eyes, then strode beside her like a protective shield as they approached the exit.
"Mason!" Caroline shouted.
Finally, he turned—but not to her.
He was adjusting Iris's shawl over her shoulders, murmuring something inaudible. Caroline stared at them, her breath coming in shallow gasps.
"Let's go," barked one of the gunmen, yanking her up by the elbow.
"Wait—no! Mason!"
He didn't look back.
As Iris stumbled out, tears streaming down her cheeks, Mason followed two steps behind, the ballroom's broken chandeliers reflecting across his polished shoes.
Caroline was dragged toward a service hallway. Her heels skidded against the tile.
In the doorway, she turned her head. Mason's back was to her.
Always.
She didn't resist. Not this time.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind her.
And just like that, the dream—the engagement, the belief that love could be earned—shattered.
Chapter 2
Chapter 2 – Rescue and First Love
*Five years earlier…*
Snow fell like sifted sugar over Fifth Avenue, blanketing the street in icy glaze. Seventeen-year-old Caroline Monroe squinted through the windshield of her father's Jaguar, her fingers tight around the steering wheel. She had begged to drive herself to voice lessons that day—insisting she was "practically an adult."
Now she was fishtailing toward disaster.
A delivery truck ahead had jackknifed across three lanes. Caroline's brakes screamed as she swerved. The car spun.
A blur of movement. A man—no, a boy—threw himself toward her door.
Glass cracked. Seatbelt snapped. Her body was yanked sideways as the Jaguar slammed sideways into a streetlight.
When her vision cleared, she was lying in a snowbank. Her breath came out in white gasps.
"Are you hurt?" The voice was deep, calm, steady. Hands pressed gently to her arms, checking for breaks.
She blinked into a face half-shadowed by a knit cap and a bleeding eyebrow.
"I—I think I'm okay," she croaked.
"Good. Let's keep it that way."
Sirens echoed from far off. Caroline shivered as the cold settled into her bones.
"Car's leaking. Let's move."
She nodded. He helped her up, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they limped to the sidewalk.
Only later, in the ER under blinding lights, did she learn his name: *Mason Rutherford.*
Columbia University senior. Heir to Rutherford Holdings. Twenty-one years old, with sharp cheekbones and eyes like iced coffee—cool, unreadable, and deeply focused. He joked with the nurses as they stitched his brow. She watched from her bed, captivated.
"Thank you," she whispered, when he passed by her curtained space.
He paused. "Don't mention it."
But she *would*. She couldn't stop thinking about him for days.
—
Three days later, a floral arrangement the size of a chair arrived at Columbia's administrative office.
No card—just her initials carved onto a gold ribbon: *CM.*
She sent another bouquet the next week, along with a handwritten thank-you note tucked in a book of Rilke poems.
No reply.
Her mother rolled her eyes. "Darling, he's too old."
Caroline smiled behind her teacup. "So I'll grow up."
—
The third week, she brought him soup. Chicken matzo, homemade. She waited outside the Rutherford building on campus like it was perfectly normal to be there.
When Mason finally emerged, earbuds in, she stepped into his path.
He paused, his expression unreadable.
"I thought you might be tired of dining hall food," she said, offering the thermos.
His brows raised. "You again."
"Persistent," she said with a grin.
A beat. Then, surprisingly, he accepted it. "Thanks."
—
From that moment, she became a fixture in his peripheral vision.
She learned his coffee order—double espresso, one sugar.
She started volunteering at the hospital where his mother chaired the board. It wasn't coincidence.
When she found out he liked sailing, she joined the Columbia sailing club despite never having set foot on a boat. After three bouts of seasickness, she earned a pity nod from him and a dry towel.
Still, he remained cool. Cordial. Distant.
But not dismissive.
And that was enough.
Every tiny kindness—a returned smile, a held door, a polite nod—became firewood for her hope. She told herself she was just being patient.
She believed love could be built, brick by brick, if she worked hard enough.
And Mason Rutherford? He was worth the blueprints.
—
Months passed.
She memorized his schedule, the color of his scarves, the way he checked his watch with the back of his fingers instead of the palm.
She waited for the moment he'd see her.
Really *see* her.
And then, one Wednesday in spring, it happened.
He had just stepped out of class when he saw her chatting with a younger student.
He stopped. Tilted his head.
For the first time, his eyes weren't distant.
"You're everywhere," he said quietly.
She laughed. "Coincidence."
His lips quirked. "Or strategy."
"Maybe both."
"You're not giving up, are you?"
She shook her head, heart thudding. "Never."
He watched her for a moment, then turned to leave.
But that night, he texted her for the first time.
One word.
*Thanks.*
—
It wasn't a love story.
Not yet.
But it was a beginning.
And Caroline Monroe, seventeen and stubborn, promised herself one thing beneath the pink spring blossoms that fell like confetti across the Columbia lawn:
No matter how long it took, she would stand beside Mason Rutherford.
No matter the price.
No matter the patience.
Chapter 3
Chapter 3 – Relentless Pursuit
"Isn't it a little... obvious?" Caroline's best friend Lila raised an eyebrow as she sipped her latte at the corner table of the university café.
Caroline smiled sweetly. "Obvious gets things done."
Across campus, Mason had just left his financial ethics lecture, walking with that same purposeful stride she could recognize from a mile away. She waited five beats, then stood up casually, gathering her books.
Lila groaned. "You're not seriously—"
"I'll see you at choir."
Caroline caught up with him outside the library. "Mason."
He turned, expression neutral. "Caroline."
"I didn't know you had class here," she said breezily.
He gave her a half-smile. "You did."
She didn't deny it. "I was wondering if you'd look over my essay on M\&A liability. Your last paper was cited by the dean."
A pause. Then, he reached for the file folder she offered.
"I'll skim it," he said.
That was enough.
—
Caroline transformed pursuit into an art form.
She co-hosted charity auctions that his family supported. She learned his assistant's schedule, sending thank-you notes to the exact people Mason respected. She joined his sailing club again—armed this time with motion sickness patches, waterproof mascara, and custom monogrammed gear.
Every move was calculated, but never desperate. That was her secret—strategy wrapped in poise.
One rainy Friday, she stood outside his favorite café with an umbrella, "by coincidence." When he offered to walk her across campus, she tucked her arm into his without hesitation.
He didn't pull away.
Her pulse leapt.
—
Their families noticed.
Caroline's father, a real estate tycoon with ties to Wall Street, began arranging golf meetings with Mason's uncles.
Mrs. Rutherford invited Caroline to a board dinner.
At one point, Caroline overheard Mason on the phone with his mother.
"Yes, she's... persistent," he said.
A pause.
"No, not annoying. Just—present."
Caroline smiled to herself. *Present* was better than invisible.
—
But the biggest threat arrived quietly.
Iris Caldwell returned from Paris.
Mason didn't say a word, but Caroline found out through a conservatory program bulletin.
Iris was back. And she'd deferred another year.
Caroline acted swiftly.
She ordered a custom gown from Milan—blood red, slashed neckline, high slit. It arrived just in time for the Rutherford Foundation's spring gala.
As Mason helped her out of the limo, his gaze paused at her collarbone for a beat too long.
She smiled. "Still think I'm just 'present'?"
He didn't answer.
But later, he offered her champagne without being asked.
—
The whispers started soon after.
"Caroline Monroe's dating Mason Rutherford," people said.
"She's practically a fixture."
"Bet they're engaged by summer."
They weren't.
But it felt close.
—
That summer, she memorized his football team's history. She started sketching again—designs inspired by things he liked: clean lines, sharp contrast, crisp symmetry. She even sat through two hours of cryptocurrency lectures to impress him.
He appreciated the effort, even if he didn't reciprocate warmth.
One night, during a rooftop dinner arranged by both families, Mason's father clinked his wine glass and said, "You two would make one hell of a merger."
Caroline didn't flinch. "We'd make one hell of a team."
Mason glanced sideways but said nothing.
Later that night, she asked him quietly, "Do you hate this?"
"No," he said.
She smiled.
That was the closest thing to a yes she'd ever get.
—
But the shadows never quite left.
Caroline noticed how Mason's eyes lingered on old photos of Iris when he thought no one was watching.
How he excused himself whenever Iris sent a message.
How, during a charity recital, he clapped a beat too long when Iris took her final bow.
Caroline noticed everything.
And she never said a word.
—
She met Iris only once that summer.
It was in a florist on Madison. Iris was buying tulips.
"Caroline Monroe," Iris said with a soft, ironic smile. "The girl who can't take a hint."
Caroline tilted her head. "I prefer 'the girl who doesn't quit.'"
Iris stepped closer, voice low. "He used to laugh at how hard you tried."
Caroline didn't blink. "He doesn't laugh anymore."
Iris's smile faltered. "No. I guess now\... he just stares."
—
Later that night, Caroline traced her engagement ring design in her sketchbook.
It wasn't an if anymore.
It was a when.
Mason would choose her. Not because she was convenient—but because she was *constant*.
Love didn't have to be spontaneous.
Sometimes, it was earned.
One patient, persistent heartbeat at a time.