London felt different when she walked beside him.
Alexander noticed it immediately—how the city's usual aggression softened at the edges, how the rain no longer felt like an inconvenience but a rhythm. Catherine walked carefully, barefoot steps measured against the pavement, her free hand trailing lightly along the brick wall as if memorizing the street through touch.
He adjusted his pace without thinking.
Most people struggled to keep up with him. Alexander Sinclair moved through life like a storm—fast, deliberate, unforgiving. With her, he slowed. Not because she was weak, but because something in him refused to rush this moment.
"You don't have to walk so quietly," Catherine said suddenly, a small smile touching her lips. "I can hear you."
"I wasn't trying to be quiet," he replied.
She tilted her head slightly. "You move like someone who doesn't want to be noticed."
The observation struck closer than he liked.
Alexander said nothing.
They passed beneath another streetlamp, its glow catching in the rain that clung to her lashes, to the loose strands of hair framing her face. His coat swallowed her frame, the sleeves hanging too long, the collar brushing her chin.
It looked wrong.
And yet—dangerously right.
"You didn't tell me why you were laughing," he said at last.
She smiled again, softer this time. Not playful—something gentler. Something fragile.
"Because I was free," she answered simply.
The word echoed through him.
Free.
Alexander had never been free a day in his life.
He had been born into obligation, molded by expectation, sharpened by violence. His childhood memories were not of laughter, but of discipline—his father's voice, low and merciless, echoing through marble halls. His mother's quiet presence, warm but distant, like someone who loved from behind glass.
At eight years old, he had held a gun for the first time.
At twelve, he had learned how to clean blood from leather.
At nineteen, he had taken control of the Sinclair empire—not because he wanted to, but because he was the only one capable of holding it together.
Freedom was a luxury people like him did not get.
"And now?" he asked.
Catherine's fingers tightened briefly around the edge of his coat.
"Now I'm just… walking," she said. "And that's enough."
They stopped at a small pedestrian crossing. The light changed, cars hissing past on wet asphalt. Alexander lifted a hand instinctively—not touching her, but close enough that she would feel his presence if she stepped too far.
She did.
Without hesitation.
Her shoulder brushed his chest lightly, as though she knew exactly where he was standing.
His body reacted before his mind could intervene.
He stiffened.
Touch had never done this to him.
Women had touched him before—many of them. Lovers, fiancées, strangers who wanted proximity to power. Their hands had slid over his skin like transactions. Desired, accepted, forgotten.
Catherine's brief contact felt like something else entirely.
Like a question.
She frowned faintly. "Did I—?"
"No," he said quickly. "You're fine."
She smiled, reassured.
The light changed. They crossed together.
"You didn't ask why I was walking," she said.
"I assumed you didn't want to talk about it."
Her lips curved slightly. "You're observant."
He didn't tell her that observation was how he survived.
"Long day?" she guessed.
"Something like that."
"Mine was… long too," she said, her voice quieter now. "Just in a different way."
He waited.
She didn't elaborate.
They reached a quieter street lined with older flats. Somewhere nearby, music drifted faintly from an open window—a piano melody, slow and melancholy.
"This is me," she said, stopping near a low stone wall.
He frowned. "You live here?"
"For tonight," she replied.
That answer set every instinct in him on edge.
"You don't sound certain."
She folded her hands in front of her, fingers fidgeting slightly. The first sign of nervousness he had seen from her.
"I'm meeting a friend tomorrow," she said. "She said I could stay with her."
"And tonight?"
Her smile returned—but it didn't reach her eyes this time.
"Tonight, I'll manage."
Alexander's jaw tightened.
He studied the building. Old. Poorly maintained. The kind of place that promised thin walls and thinner locks.
"You shouldn't," he said flatly.
She laughed quietly. "You sound like you're scolding me."
"Someone should."
She turned toward his voice, her expression thoughtful. "Why do you care?"
The question was innocent.
His answer was not.
Because she made him feel human.
Because she was standing barefoot in the rain like pain had not claimed her soul.
Because the world would devour someone like her without remorse.
"I don't know," he said instead. "But I do."
Silence stretched between them again—charged now, heavy with unspoken things.
Catherine reached up slowly, carefully, and touched the lapel of his coat still resting on her shoulders.
"I'll give this back," she said softly. "I promise."
"Keep it," he replied. "For now."
Her fingers curled slightly in the fabric.
"Will I see you again?" she asked.
The question shouldn't have mattered.
It did.
Alexander hesitated, just long enough for her to sense it.
"You don't have to," she added gently. "I'm not good at… keeping people."
Something sharp twisted in his chest.
"I'll see you again," he said.
Certainty edged his voice—an edge she heard immediately.
She smiled, brighter now. Hope flickering.
"I'll remember your footsteps," she said. "They're very distinctive."
That surprised a quiet laugh out of him—low, brief, genuine.
"I'll try not to change them."
She turned toward the building then, counting her steps, navigating by memory and instinct. Alexander watched until she reached the door safely and disappeared inside.
Only then did he exhale.
His phone vibrated.
Once.
Then again.
He looked down.
AYDEN: Where are you?
AYDEN: Vezzani movement. We need you.
Alexander stared at the dark screen for a long moment.
Rain slid down his face, cold and grounding.
He typed a single reply.
ALEXANDER: Track this address. Quietly.
No one touches her.
No one watches her without my permission.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked once more at the door Catherine had gone through.
For the first time in years, Alexander Sinclair walked away from a meeting unfinished.
For the first time in his life, the darkness did not feel complete.
And somewhere deep inside him, a dangerous thought took root:
If light like hers existed… maybe he didn't have to live entirely in shadows.