Chapter 3 The Stranger

Everything was going well. A little too well.

Daphne Baker was on a roll she had not felt since she left Thompson & Associates. Her office at Belle & Baker was now a shrine of sleek dominance-a bottle of whiskey by the floor to ceiling window, a huge mahogany desk with nothing but all her awards on it. For the first time, she and her father, Marvin Baker, had walked into a boardroom side by side -she wasn't behind him as she always was. And he hadn't said a word through those meetings. Just nodded. That was all she ever needed from him: a sign that she wasn't chasing legacy anymore.

She was one.

Her name carried weight now. Not just a whisper behind closed doors, but a headline. Her phone buzzed with invitations-legal summits, panel talks, gala dinners, and those private brunches hosted by people who once offered her nothing but a handshake and their wife's name.

It was everything she thought she wanted.

But success, she learned, was something other than a list of accomplishments and achievements. It was polished. Hungry. Lonely. Very lonely.

So when she was having some lone time at the terrace of her apartment, she came across an video of a club opening having around her vicinity. She was bored so why not? Even the Ice Queen was capable of impulsiveness.

The club was called Lux. It didn't look like the usual high class clubs she used to frequent before she got married. This one was beneath her. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and cheap liquor. The light was dim and the music was loud and appalling. It was the kind of place reputations go to die quietly . What on earth was she doing here?

She wore red. Not the warm, approachable kind. Not the cheap one to fit into the setting.

Blood-wine red. The kind that didn't blend in. The kind that made people move.

Daphne didn't come to flirt.

She came to exist.

Just her. No briefs. No pressure. No expectations. Just... stillness.

She felt eyes fixated on her but she was a big girl. Besides men stared all the time.

From across the bar. A man. Watching. Very openly. In a very obvious manner. Just enough that she knew that he'd been watching her all night. He waited for a while before he approached her.

Rough shirt. Dirty trousers but he had the confidence of a top member of society. Daphne knew his type.

"Daphne Baker," he said like they were old friends. "Didn't think you were the type to come out and play."

She smiled tightly. "I'm not."

He stepped closer. "You're hotter in person."

She turned to walk away. She wasn't going to waste her time on this individual.

Just then, he stretched out to grab her wrist. Too tight.

Daphne felt something asides an heavy bond on her wrist . Fury.

"Let. Me. Go," she said, voice razor-edged.

The music swallowed her words. His grip tightened.

And then- before she could even grab the nearest thing to hit on the man, it was him hitting the ground with a loud thud that made few people around turn to see what was going on.

Another man had hit him and twisted the guy's arm behind his back. The bouncers arrived just in time to pull the creep away. The crowd, at this time barely noticed anything.

Daphne turned to thank her savior.

But he was already gone.

Disappearing into the crowd like a dream that didn't want to be remembered.

---

She thought about him for days.

Ran facial recognition through her private contacts. No hit.

Asked the club for footage. They shrugged. "Must've come in through the back." No ID. No registration. No trace.

A ghost.

And it bothered her.

Not just because she couldn't find him.

But because she couldn't forget him.

The way he moved. Like he wasn't afraid of consequence.

The way he looked at her-not like a prize, not like a problem-but like a mirror.

---

Two weeks later, she was at a late-night café near the courthouse. Rain pounded the sidewalks, her laptop screen burned her eyes, and the merger clause in front of her refused to make sense.

She rubbed her temples. Reached for her untouched espresso-

Only to find someone else sipping it.

She looked up.

Him.

Black jacket. Storm-gray eyes. Calm as the sky before something breaks.

"You really don't know how to say thank you, do you?" he said, voice low and unbothered.

Daphne froze.

Then let out a breath and laughed. Genuinely.

"You vanished."

"I don't like attention."

"I spent days trying to track you down."

He smirked. "You must really hate not getting what you want."

She tilted her head. "What's your name?"

"Rodney."

"Rodney what?"

He sipped again. "Does it matter?"

She narrowed her eyes. "It does to me."

"Then it's a good thing I'm not trying to matter yet."

Daphne leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. "You're awfully smug for someone who stole my espresso."

"You're awfully tense for someone who came to a 24-hour café at midnight."

Touché.

---

They sat in silence for a moment, the rain tapping the glass beside them.

Then he said, "You looked lonely that night."

Daphne flinched. "Excuse me?"

"I've seen a lot of women look bored, drunk, powerful. But I know what lonely looks like."

She stared at him, unblinking. "You don't know me."

"I don't," he agreed. "But I know that kind of silence."

She didn't say anything for a long time.

Then: "What kind of silence?"

"The kind you earn. The kind that doesn't go away when the applause does."

---

He stood then, slid her espresso back toward her.

"I won't keep you. Just thought I'd finally say hi without someone needing medical attention."

Daphne stood too. "Wait."

He turned.

She hesitated. Then offered her hand.

"Daphne," she said. "In case you forgot."

He took it. His touch warm. Firm.

"I didn't," he said. "I just didn't want to say it before you were ready to let me."

And with that, he left.

Just one lingering thought:

Who the hell was Rodney? And why did she already want to see him again?