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She is, without question, the most stunning woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.
And somehow…
I know her.
“Selene?”
TWO
Selene
My name on Zayn’s lips doesn’t sound like a question so much as a sharp note of surprise.
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I give a soft, amused chuckle, studying him with a quiet satisfaction.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, still visibly caught off guard.
“I’m here for my meeting with Zayn Thomas,” I reply, deliberately using his full name. “The one who’s running…” I lift my left wrist and glance at a watch that probably stopped working years ago. “…about forty-seven minutes late.”
I finish with an exaggerated roll of my eyes, making it painfully obvious how impressed I am by his punctuality.
“You’re the designer I was supposed to meet today?”
He skips right past the fact that he’s late. No apology. No acknowledgment whatsoever. But that isn’t what bothers me the most.
It’s the look on his face.
Not quite disgust, but something uncomfortably close—an expression that says I don’t fit whatever image he had already constructed in his mind.
A man.
That’s who he’d been expecting from the moment he asked where the designer was. He.
I study him for another second, letting that assumption linger between us. Then another thought slips into my mind.
Why doesn’t he even know I’m the designer?
His mother and Sara personally asked me to take on this project. They didn’t have to convince me much, either—not when we’re talking about a project that doesn’t just look impressive on paper, but has the power to change how people see your work.
After I renovated their homes about two years ago, our relationship didn’t end there. We stayed in touch. More than that—we became friends. We talk often, sometimes meet for coffee, like people who’ve simply grown comfortable being part of each other’s lives.
Careful not to let my expression betray what I’m really thinking, I force a smile that never reaches my eyes.
“Yeah, that would be me.”
Then, just to make it crystal clear how thrilled I am about this situation, I shift everything I’m carrying into one arm and extend my free hand.
“Selene Diaconescu, interior designer,” I add with a dry smirk. “Delighted, Zayn Thomas.”
The irony in my voice is impossible to miss.
I keep my hand outstretched, waiting.
A quiet laugh slips from him, as if he understands exactly what I’m doing. He takes my hand, his grip firm yet surprisingly careful.
The instant our skin touches, an unexpected wave of warmth races through me, making me shiver. My thoughts scatter for the briefest moment before scrambling back into place.
What was that?
