The storm had passed, but the city still wore its aftershocks like a soaked coat. Streetlights flickered over puddles reflecting the gray skyline of Manhattan, and in the heart of it all, a woman stood still-soaked to the bone, yet unshaken.

Her name was Rose Mbatha.

She had just missed the last subway. Again. A habit born from chasing too many dreams and not enough time. Her job at a small floral boutique on the Upper West Side didn't pay much, but it allowed her hands to be close to the beauty she had always loved-flowers, especially wild ones. Roses were her namesake, but tulips reminded her of her mother, and sunflowers reminded her of resilience. She often said flowers spoke when no one else would.

Tonight, they were silent.

Pulling her worn-out coat tighter around her frame, she turned into the alley shortcut she knew by heart. That's when the black car pulled up, a Rolls-Royce-too polished, too perfect for a place like this.

And then he stepped out.

The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and cut like a figure chiseled out of granite. In a sharply tailored suit and an expression that belonged more in boardrooms than dark alleys, he looked out of place here. His eyes, cool as steel, swept over her.

"Are you lost?" His voice was deep, almost amused.

"No," Rose replied, chin lifted. "Are you?"

The smirk that touched his lips could have melted ice. "I don't get lost. I get what I want."

She blinked at him, unimpressed. "Good for you."

It wasn't the response he expected. In fact, Alexander Cain-tech billionaire, media-dubbed genius, and one of New York's most elusive bachelors-had never been spoken to quite like that before.

Rose walked past him, rain-soaked curls clinging to her skin, her steps echoing in the alley. For some reason, he followed.

"I could give you a ride," he offered, catching up.

"You could," she said without stopping, "but you won't."

He raised a brow. "Why not?"

"Because men like you don't do favors. They keep score."

That stopped him. Who was this girl?

He watched her disappear into the fog, vanishing like a half-remembered dream.

**

Two days later, she saw him again.

Rose was arranging hydrangeas at the front window of Blush & Ivy, the boutique where she worked, when the bell chimed and the air shifted. She looked up and froze. It was him. Dry this time, impeccable in another bespoke suit that probably cost more than her yearly salary.

"I want flowers," he said simply.

Rose raised a brow. "For who?"

"Myself."

She nearly laughed. "You buy flowers for yourself?"

"Today I do."

She shrugged and began to wrap a simple arrangement-blue delphiniums and white peonies. He watched her fingers move with precision and grace, like she was weaving something sacred.

He handed her a black card when she was done.

"Cash only," she said without looking up.

Another surprise. "Really?"

She smiled at him then, and it did something strange to his heartbeat. "Yes. The system doesn't own us yet."

He paid in crumpled bills and walked out with the bouquet like a man holding secrets.

**

Alexander Cain wasn't used to being ignored. Women threw themselves at him. Investors begged for his attention. The world bent to his whims.

But Rose... she intrigued him.

There was something wild and grounded about her all at once. She spoke to everyone with the same steady tone, no matter who they were. He found himself thinking about her smile. Her voice. The slight tremble in her hands when she laughed.

So he returned.

Every Wednesday.

Sometimes for lilies. Sometimes tulips. Always from her.

Rose noticed, of course. She wasn't naïve. But she said nothing, choosing instead to treat him like any other customer-though she wondered, more and more, who he really was.

**

On a rainy Thursday, he asked.

"Dinner."

She looked up from trimming a bouquet. "No thank you."

His jaw twitched. "You don't even want to know where?"

"No. Because it wouldn't matter."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't date men who think they own the world."

He stepped closer. "What if I told you I wanted to give it away?"

Her breath hitched. He was too close. Too intense.

"Then I'd say you're lying."

And yet, for the first time in years, Alexander didn't feel insulted. He felt something far more dangerous.

Hope.

**

Rose didn't say yes until the fifth time he asked. She finally agreed because he didn't push. He never touched her. Never crossed lines.

And when they finally did go out, it wasn't to a five-star restaurant or private yacht.

It was to her favorite Nigerian bistro in Harlem. The food was spicy, the music loud, the chairs uneven.

But Alexander sat across from her like he belonged there.

He listened. Really listened.

And when she talked about her dreams-opening her own flower shop, helping girls from her neighborhood learn about botany and business-he didn't laugh.

He offered to help.

Not with money, but with time.

That night, when he walked her home, he didn't kiss her. He held her hand instead-just briefly-and it felt more intimate than anything she'd known.

**

The next few months were a slow unfurling of something real.

Rose watched as the man behind the billionaire mask emerged. Alexander, who'd grown up an orphan, who built an empire from nothing but code and sleepless nights. Alexander, who feared intimacy more than failure.

But with Rose, he was learning how to be soft.

And she, who had never trusted men with power, found herself trusting him.

They built a rhythm-dinners in, Sunday walks, whispered confessions. Love bloomed not like fireworks but like dawn-quiet, certain, inevitable.

**

But love, especially one like theirs, never comes without a cost.

Someone from his past was watching. Waiting.

And soon, their love would be tested in ways neither of them saw coming.

But tonight, as they sat beneath a canopy of fairy lights in her tiny apartment, his hand over hers, her head on his shoulder...

They were just a man and a woman.

Falling.

And for the first time in his life, Alexander Cain wanted nothing more than to be caught.