The request gave him pause. Bullet didn’t have business cards. Archer Sullivan did, but that would open a door he wasn’t sure he could ever walk through. The spotlight his public life had created on his parents had caused more harm than good. Constant strain. Constant scrutiny. He wouldn’t do that to someone else.
Still, something about this woman—her resilience, her quiet strength—made him hesitate.
“I don’t. But I can give you my number.” The words were out before he could stop them. Reckless. Unplanned. Not at all how he operated.
She handed him her phone, and he typed in a number—not his primary line that executives and assistants called, but the private one that only his closest friends and his security team had access to.
“Just in case,” he said, returning the phone.
“Just in case,” she echoed, looking at the screen with raised eyebrows. “No last name, just ‘Bullet’?”
“For now.”
She seemed to understand what he wasn’t saying—that anonymity went both ways. She was meeting the version of him who rode through the night chasing the freedom his wealth and responsibilities had stolen.
“Goodnight, Bullet. Thanks for being in the right place at the right time.”
He stepped back as she closed the door and started the engine, watching until she pulled safely into traffic. Only then did he return to his bike and the guys, the encounter replaying in his mind.
Archer had built his empire on calculated risks, on seeing patterns others missed. He’d learned to trust his instincts long before he had the data to back them up. Andevery instinct he possessed was telling him that Morgan—no last name exchanged there either—was going to complicate his carefully compartmentalized life.
The smart move would be to forget her, to let tonight remain a random act of chivalry with no follow-through. He already juggled enough moving parts between his two worlds—adding a woman like her could unravel everything.
He rejoined the others—Viper, Hawk, and Diesel—who waited with unspoken understanding. No questions, just the quiet bond of men who had each played protector in one way or another before.
But after the unplanned evening ride with the guys was through, he gunned his Ducati down the nearly empty street, the image of her amber eyes and defiant chin stayed with him, along with the certainty that this wouldn’t be their last encounter.
The penthouse was dark when he returned, exactly as he’d left it. Archer removed his helmet and placed it on the custom stand near the door, shrugging out of his leather jacket with practiced ease. The top floor of the Sullivan Tower offered a panoramic view of San Francisco city lights, a kingdom he’d built spread out before him, yet most nights it felt more like a museum than a home. His mother would have found a way to fill it with warmth had she still been alive.
His business phone showed seventeen missed calls and thirty-two emails since he’d silenced it for his ride. The world never stopped demanding pieces of him.
Ignoring them all, he poured two fingers of whiskey and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows in his bedroom that overlooked the city. Somewhere out there, Morgan was returning to her home, perhaps still processing the betrayal she’d discovered tonight. Was she crying? Somehow he doubted it. Women like her didn’t break easily.
He found himself wondering which tiny light in the vast cityscape might be hers.
The thought brought him up short. This wasn’t like him. He didn’t daydream about women he’d just met. He’d taken women out strategically when necessary—charity galas, corporate events—and kept his relationships compartmentalized and brief. Occasionally he took a woman to bed, but always with clear boundaries and no future expectations.
Yet here he was, whiskey in hand, thinking about a woman whose last name he didn’t know.
His private phone vibrated in his pocket. Probably Viper or Hawk checking in to confirm their planned ride this weekend. Instead, an unsaved number appeared on the screen, with a single message:
This is Morgan from tonight. Just wanted to make sure this number actually works. Thanks again for your help.
Archer stared at the message longer than necessary. She was testing him, making sure he hadn’t given her a fake number. His lip curled into an unexpected smile.
His thumbs hovered over the screen as he debated his response. Too casual might seem dismissive. Too formal would feel awkward after their encounter. In board meetings, he never hesitated, never showed uncertainty. But this wasn’t a business deal.
Finally, he typed:Number works. Hope you made it home safely.
Simple. Direct. Safe.
Her response came almost immediately:Safe and sound. Thinking about your advice re: locks.
He found himself smiling, just slightly.Good decision.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. Finally:I don’t usually thank strange men in helmets, but I’m glad you showed up when you did.
I don’t usually intervene in strangers’ arguments. Guess we both surprised ourselves tonight.
