Chapter 1: Charlotte
“Perfect love doesn’t exist.”
That’s what I keep telling myself as I cross Central Park, my heels sinking slightly into the pale gravel path while the morning wind slips through the trees just to ruin my blowout. And yes, it’s doing an excellent job.
“Perfect love doesn’t exist, Charlotte,” I repeat, tightening my grip around the warm coffee cup as I cut through the park heading south.
Around me, the world looks innocent: runners with earbuds in, dogs far too happy for 7:30 a.m., a woman in flawless leggings running as if her life depends on her step count.
Meanwhile, I depend on a married man. But details.
Suddenly, my heel gets stuck in a manhole grate.
“Of course…” I mutter, wobbling as I try to free myself without destroying the shoe. I teeter for a second, heart in my throat, coffee dangerously close to spilling over.
This morning I chose a more provocative outfit than usual. The blouse under my blazer is semi-sheer, and my high-waisted skirt hugs my legs in all the right places.
Will he like it?
He usually loves it when I dress like this—“to drive him crazy.”
With one sharp tug, I free my heel. Thankfully, the shoe survives. The coffee, however, decides this is the perfect moment to drip—slowly, deliberately—onto my tights, as if reminding me that perfection doesn’t suit me.
“Nice one, Charlotte. Your ex would die laughing.”
I shake my head, trying to brush off that familiar feeling of inadequacy. And maybe the caffeine too.
And especially trying to figure out what on earth possessed me this morning to walk through Central Park instead of taking the subway.
A twenty-minute walk.
In heels.
If I didn’t have mild tendencies toward romantic self-sabotage, I’d think I was punishing myself for my highly questionable emotional decisions.
But the truth is… more poetic.
The September sun fooled me. I wanted to breathe in autumn air. To feel like a woman who is free. Balanced. In control.
Brilliant.
I smooth my skirt, slide my shoe back on properly, and glance around. No one seems to have noticed. Or maybe they have. In this city, someone is always watching. And usually judging, too.
I sigh.
“Perfect love doesn’t exist,” I think again. “But can it still be called love?”
Central Park is a green lie. It makes you believe life is simple. That running a little faster will fix everything. That love is just a matter of perspective.
Then you leave the park. The noise hits you before the cars do.
A taxi screeches to a stop inches from me. The driver rolls down his window and yells something that, judging by the tone, is not a compliment about my heels.
I smile.
If New York doesn’t yell at you at least once a day, you’re not living fast enough.
I adjust my bag on my shoulder and keep walking as if nothing happened. In this city, if you stop too long to think, someone passes you. Or runs you over.
And lately, I live so fast that sometimes I forget where I’m going.
I walk into the office a few minutes early, as always. The lobby gleams, smelling faintly of expensive cleaner and fresh coffee. I know exactly what’s waiting for me, yet I head toward my office anyway, my heels striking the floor like a nervous metronome.
For a moment, I’m proud of myself. Despite the chaotic start, I now look like a woman of class. A woman who knows what she wants.
“Charlotte?”
There he is.
Him. Kevin. My boss.
His voice—dangerously sensual—reaches me from behind. The way he says my name is enough to make my resolve start to dissolve, inch by inch.
Between us, it was never destiny. Never madness.
Just a coffee offered on a day I felt invisible. He looked at me as if I held an entire universe in my eyes—and from there, it’s easy to fall. Too easy.
I still think I’m controlling the game, but every day I realize I laid my heart on the table without even noticing.
I turn slowly, forcing a professional expression.
“Yes?” I arch a brow, feigning confidence. I have to avoid showing how badly I want to run to him. Some colleagues are already at their desks, and I don’t want to draw attention.
“I was waiting for you. Bring me a coffee and come to my office—we’ll go over the week’s meetings and appointments.”
I swallow. My heart gallops wildly. I know exactly what he means. And honestly? I can’t wait.
“Of course. I’ll be right there.”
He calculated it perfectly: a good half hour before the weekly meeting. Enough time to… go over things.
Before I fell for him, I swore I would never trust a man like that again.
Too confident. Too brilliant. Too dangerous. The kind you’re warned about if you want to maintain any reasonable emotional dignity. But apparently, I have a weakness for lost causes—or a natural attraction to the Big Bad Wolf. And yet I know perfectly well that Little Red Riding Hood shouldn’t walk into the woods…
Five minutes later, I knock on his office door, wiping my sweaty palms on my fitted skirt. The tray with his coffee and my cappuccino trembles slightly.
“Come in.”
I open the door. He steps closer to take the tray from my hands in a gesture that’s almost too gallant.
“Oh, thank you, Charlotte,” he murmurs, then closes the door behind me.
A sharp click. The world stays outside.
There he is, ladies and gentlemen—the most attractive wolf in the forest.
His blue eyes are dangerously magnetic. He looks me up and down with the faintest predatory smile.
I feel naked, even though I’m fully dressed. Poor Little Red Riding Hood must have felt exactly like this.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” he whispers, stepping closer.
The scent of his cologne wraps around me. That’s all it takes for my good intentions to dissolve. Broad shoulders beneath a white shirt, tie slightly loosened, the way he occupies space as if it all belongs to him… and in a way, it does. He’s the head of the company. His name is on the most important door in the building.
“You look beautiful,” he murmurs.
I don’t move. I can’t. I don’t want to.
His fingers brush my neck, sliding up to my jaw. A light, deliberate touch. He knows the map of my weak points perfectly.
“I thought about you all weekend.”
My stomach flips. “I thought about you too,” I admit, completely spellbound by his spell.
He kisses me. Slow. Almost innocent. A taste of resistance. His hands settle at my waist. My body reacts before my mind does, as always. I pull him closer, and he smiles against my lips, as if he’s just confirmed something he already knew.
Then he pulls away. He doesn’t go further. Not there. Not that morning.
I’m breathless. He, on the other hand, looks perfectly in control.
“I can’t keep you too long right now. I’ll see you after work. Do what you always do—leave the office and wait for me in the car.”
Then he adds, with a half-smile—his teeth almost sharp, almost lethal—
“I have a surprise for you, Star.”
Star.
It melts me and irritates me at the same time.
I want him entirely. His body. His thoughts. His Sundays.
Instead, I get fragments.
And I defend them as if they were a privilege.
Yes, I know he has a family. Yes, I know how that sounds. But when it comes to him, my logic kneels. And I let it.
We never say “I love you.”
We don’t need to. Sometimes I’m convinced I can read it in his eyes.
That’s enough, right?
