Broad.
Dark hair cut close.
A white shirt open at the collar that somehow looked both casual and lethal.
His presence filled the room the way Kane’s did—but differently.
Kane felt coiled.
Connor felt contained.
Like a man who had already burned through something and come out sharpened.
His eyes moved first to Kane.
A silent exchange passed between them.
Then to me. Measured. Assessing.
“This is Ella,” Kane said.
Connor stepped forward.
“Connor Ward,” he said.
His voice was smooth. Slightly deeper than I expected.
His handshake was firm.
“You’re welcome here,” he said simply.
The words settled over me.
“And this,” Connor continued, turning slightly, “is Mila.”
She stepped forward from near the windows.
Soft, understated confidence was the first thing that hit me.
Delicate features. Dark hair loose over her shoulders. Eyes observant and intelligent.
She wore simple jeans and a light sweater, camera strap draped casually around her neck like it belonged there.
“I’m from Ohio,” she said with an easy shrug. “So, if you ever miss normal grocery stores or someone who understands small talk that doesn’t involve philosophy, I’m your girl.”
I laughed.
“New York,” I said. “Sounds like we should chat.”
Relief flickered in her eyes.
“Paris is romantic,” she said quietly, glancing around the room. “But it can feel … isolating at first.”
I nodded.
“That’s the word.”
Connor’s hand settled lightly at Mila’s waist.
