London had never learned how to be quiet.
Engines snarled through rain-slicked streets. Footsteps slapped against pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed—high and raw, like an animal caught in pain. Even at night, the city only softened its violence. It whispered it.
Alexander Sinclair welcomed the noise.
It kept his thoughts from wandering too far.
Rain fell steadily, cold and unrelenting, turning the streets into mirrors that fractured the glow of streetlamps into trembling gold. He walked without an umbrella, his black wool coat already soaked through at the shoulders, rain threading through his dark curls and sliding down the sharp lines of his face. He didn't feel the cold. He rarely did.
His mind was still in the boardroom.
Numbers stacked like weapons. Smiles that meant nothing. A supplier who had lied without hesitation. A quiet order given with a nod—one that would end badly for someone. Blood, perhaps. Consequences, certainly.
Just another evening.
At twenty-five, Alexander ruled an empire most men twice his age would buckle beneath. He had inherited violence the way others inherited debt—inevitably. It had shaped him, sharpened him, stripped away anything soft enough to be a liability.
His father's voice echoed in his memory, as it always did.
Feel nothing. Control everything.
Alexander had learned well.
And yet tonight, something in his chest felt… wrong. Not pain. Not fear. Just a pressure that refused to ease, no matter how carefully he breathed. That was why he walked instead of driving. Why his security detail had been dismissed with a look. Why his phone remained untouched in his pocket.
He needed space. Air. Something that wasn't closing in on him.
He turned onto a narrower street lined with aging brick buildings and skeletal trees, their bare branches rattling softly in the wind. Fallen leaves clung to the pavement, flattened by rain in shades of amber and rust.
And then—
Laughter.
Alexander stopped.
It wasn't loud. Or sharp. Or edged with mockery like most laughter he knew.
It was soft.
Free.
For a moment, he wondered if exhaustion had finally cracked something in his mind.
Then he heard it again.
A woman's laugh—light, breathless, threaded with wonder.
He turned toward the sound, every instinct sharpening. Curiosity was dangerous. It got people killed. Still, his feet moved before reason could stop them.
He rounded the corner—
And the world shifted.
She stood beneath a streetlamp, rain falling over her like it had chosen her specifically.
Barefoot, toes sinking into wet leaves, she spun slowly with her arms lifted, face tilted toward the sky. The thin fabric of her pale dress clung to her frame, darkened by rain until it was nearly translucent at the hem. Her hair—long, wavy, a soft brown—hung heavy down her back, streaked with silver where the rain caught it.
She laughed again.
Alexander forgot to breathe.
The sound wasn't meant for anyone else. It wasn't performed. It was joy—sudden and unguarded, breaking free like something that had been locked away for too long.
She kicked at the leaves, sending them skittering across the pavement, then spun after them with clumsy delight, as if chasing something only she could sense.
Something in Alexander fractured.
He had seen beauty before—women sculpted by money, intention, and expectation. But this was different. This wasn't beauty shaped for approval.
This was freedom.
And for the first time in his life, Alexander Sinclair smiled.
It was barely there. A small, unfamiliar curve of his lips that no one had ever earned—not his mother, not his lovers, not even himself.
The expression startled him.
He stood there, rain soaking into his clothes, heart beating louder than it should, watching a stranger dance in the middle of a London street like pain had never known her.
But pain always found everyone.
He noticed it then—not with his eyes, but with the instincts that had kept him alive.
The dress was too thin for the cold. Her skin was pale. Her movements, though playful, were careful—measured. There was no phone in her hands. No bag. No shoes nearby.
And when she finally stopped spinning, when her laughter softened into quiet breaths, her eyes—bright blue, impossibly vivid—didn't focus on anything at all.
They looked past him.
Understanding struck hard and sharp.
She was blind.
Alexander inhaled slowly.
The realization changed everything.
Her joy wasn't ignorance. It was defiance.
She wasn't laughing because life had been kind to her.
She was laughing because it hadn't—and for this moment, it no longer owned her.
She stepped forward. Not toward him. Just forward.
Too close to the curb. Too close to slick stone.
Alexander moved without thinking.
Three strides. His hand closed gently around her wrist just before she lost her balance.
She gasped—not in fear, but surprise.
Her body went still at once, tension humming beneath his touch. He released her immediately, stepping back, hands lifting slightly.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "You were about to slip."
She stood frozen a moment longer, head tilted as if she were listening beyond his words.
Then her shoulders eased.
"It's alright," she said softly. "I forget sometimes."
She smiled—not at him, but at the rain, at the world she felt rather than saw.
Without thinking, Alexander shrugged out of his coat and held it out.
"It's cold," he said. "You'll get sick."
"I don't need—"
"It's not charity," he interrupted gently. "Just… practicality."
She hesitated.
Then her hands reached out, brushing the air until her fingers found the fabric. Her touch was careful, almost reverent.
"Thank you," she murmured.
He draped the coat around her shoulders, mindful of the space between them. She inhaled softly once the warmth settled in.
"You smell like rain," she said.
Alexander blinked.
Most people smelled fear on him. Or power. Or blood.
Rain was new.
"I was walking," he replied.
"So was I," she said lightly. "In my own way."
Silence settled between them—not heavy, not awkward. Just present.
"What's your name?" she asked.
He hesitated.
Names mattered.
"Alexander."
She repeated it slowly. "Alexander. I'm Catherine."
The name fit her too well.
Thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said.
"I'm not," she replied. "I have the rain."
Something about that lodged itself in his chest and refused to move.
"Let me walk you somewhere safe," he said. "Just until you're out of the cold."
She considered him—not with sight, but with something deeper.
"I don't feel afraid of you."
That should have unsettled him.
Instead, it terrified him.
"Alright," she said softly. "But only walking."
They moved together beneath the rain, the city watching as darkness brushed against light for the first time.
Alexander Sinclair did not yet know her story.
He did not yet know the scars beneath her smile.
But as Catherine Rosario laughed quietly at the sound of rain striking metal, something ancient and dangerous shifted inside him.
For the first time, he wanted something he could not control.
And that frightened him more than any enemy ever had.