A Chance Encounter

The rain poured relentlessly against the city skyline, drenching the streets in shimmering reflections of neon lights. The night was cold, and the wind howled through the towering buildings, sending a chill down the spine of anyone caught outside without shelter.

Amidst the bustling crowd seeking refuge from the downpour, Emma Sinclair clutched her thin coat tighter around her frail body. Her shoes were soaked through, her feet numb from the cold, but she had no choice—she had to make it home.

Home.

If she could even call it that.

A small, rundown apartment at the edge of the city, where unpaid bills piled up like an insurmountable mountain. She was drowning in debt, left behind by a father who had long abandoned responsibility, and a mother whose fragile health barely allowed her to get through the day.

She bit her lip, forcing herself not to think about her problems. Right now, she needed to find a way out of this rain.

Just as she turned a corner, she heard the screech of tires cutting through the downpour.

A sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom came to a sudden halt just inches away from where she stood. The car door swung open, and a tall, imposing man stepped out.

Alexander Westwood.

The name alone sent shivers through the business world.

He was the untouchable king of the corporate empire, a man feared and respected in equal measure. Women threw themselves at him, men either wanted to be him or wanted to stay out of his way. Ruthless in the boardroom, cold and indifferent to emotions—he was a man who had never been known to show an ounce of tenderness.

Yet, at that moment, his deep, obsidian eyes locked onto Emma, narrowing slightly as he observed her trembling figure.

She looked pitiful—drenched from head to toe, her lips slightly pale from the cold, her hands clenched into tight fists as if she were trying to endure something.

He had seen countless beautiful women in his life. Women who wore expensive perfumes, designer dresses, and heels that clicked elegantly against marble floors.

But this woman before him?

A nobody.

A woman drowning in poverty and debt, someone who shouldn't have caught his attention.

And yet—he found himself unable to look away.

"Get in." His voice was low, commanding, leaving no room for argument.

Emma froze.

She had never met this man before. She had only seen his name in newspapers, whispered in fearful tones by those who admired or despised him.

Why was he offering her a ride?

"I don't—" she started, but he cut her off.

"You're in no position to refuse." His tone was final.

For a moment, she hesitated.

She had always been independent. Always relied on herself, never expecting kindness from strangers—especially not from someone like Alexander Westwood.

But the rain was merciless, and the cold was creeping into her bones.

With no other choice, she stepped into the luxurious car, the scent of expensive leather and his crisp cologne enveloping her.

She had no idea that this one decision would change her life forever.

—

Inside the car, silence settled between them.

Emma's fingers gripped the hem of her damp coat, her entire body tense. The warmth of the car's interior was almost overwhelming after being in the freezing rain, but she couldn't allow herself to relax.

Alexander sat beside her, his posture relaxed yet exuding dominance. His tailored black suit was immaculate, not a single wrinkle in sight. Even in the dim lighting of the car, his presence was overpowering.

She could feel his gaze on her, assessing, calculating.

"What's your name?" His voice was deep, smooth, yet carried a weight that demanded answers.

Emma hesitated for a moment before answering, "Emma Sinclair."

Alexander hummed, as if rolling her name around in his mind. "Emma Sinclair," he repeated slowly, his voice carrying an unreadable emotion. "Why were you standing in the rain like that?"

She lowered her eyes, unwilling to expose her struggles to a man like him. "I was on my way home."

"Home?" He raised a brow. "And where exactly is home?"

Emma clenched her fists. Why did it matter to him?

"A small apartment near the old district," she admitted quietly.

His gaze flickered with something she couldn't decipher, but he didn't press further.

Instead, he reached forward and grabbed a pristine white handkerchief from the compartment near him. Without warning, he leaned slightly toward her, his movements slow but deliberate.

Emma stiffened as he extended the handkerchief, his fingers brushing lightly against her ice-cold hand.

"You're freezing," he murmured. "Dry yourself."

Her breath caught.

She had expected arrogance from him, cold indifference—but not this. Not this unexpected, almost effortless act of consideration.

Her fingers trembled as she took the handkerchief from him, whispering a soft, "Thank you."

Alexander said nothing, only watching her with that unreadable gaze of his.

—

The car pulled up in front of a modest, aging apartment building.

Emma glanced at it, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Compared to the world Alexander lived in, this place was practically a slum.

"I… I can get out here," she said quickly, reaching for the door handle.

But before she could step out, his voice stopped her.

"Emma."

She turned to face him, her heart pounding for reasons she couldn't understand.

"This isn't the last time you'll see me." His voice was low, confident, as if stating an inevitable fact rather than a possibility.

Her fingers tightened around the handkerchief in her lap.

She had no idea why he said that. No idea what he meant.

But deep down, she had a feeling—

Her life was about to change forever.