Chapter 2

Gabriel's Pov

There's a specific kind of silence I enjoy in the morning—the one that follows the soft hiss of the espresso machine and precedes the hum of the world coming alive. It's a silence that tastes like discipline. Like order. Like solitude I've chosen, not been sentenced to.

The sky outside my penthouse window was a pale steel gray, mirroring the sharp lines of the city skyline. I stood in front of the mirror, knotting my navy tie with ease. My three-piece suit hugged my frame.

When your name is Gabriel Anderson, people expect a lot. There was pride and ruthlessness that came with that name.

I glanced down at the headlines flashing on my phone. Stocks up. One of the new restaurant locations had gone viral for its minimalist luxury. A design client from overseas had signed a seven-figure deal. Everything was running the way I built it to. Anderson Constructions was at the top of its game—construction, interiors, and now our restaurant and club chain.

Success wasn't the problem.

It was people.

More specifically, it was trust. Genuine, unfiltered connection. Something I used to crave more than anything. But the older I got, the more jaded I became. Every woman who approached me wanted the man they saw in glossy magazines or sleek commercials. Gabriel Anderson, the billionaire CEO. The walking headline. The fantasy. Not the man.

Not the one who stayed late nights at the office drawing up blueprints by hand because it calmed him. Not the one who still drove himself to work because he liked the feel of the road. Not the man who wanted to start a family someday—not for image, not for status, but because he wanted someone to come home to.

No one ever saw that man.

Not until they saw my bank balance.

I straightened my cufflinks.

I never cared for Flash. What I valued was control. Clarity. Truth.

And I'd built my world on that.

Just as I was slipping into my coat, Jared, my butler, appeared at the door of the foyer. "Sir, there's a woman outside."

I frowned, glancing at my Rolex. "At this hour?"

He nodded. "She's... pounding on the front door. Refusing to leave. Says she's been calling and you haven't responded."

I sighed. "And her name?"

"Katrina," Jared said, with a barely noticeable wince. "She claims she has some... history with you."

I knew exactly why she was here.

"Let her in," the words came out with a bitter edge.

Jared raised a brow, but nodded. "Right away, sir."

I walked down the stairs slowly, adjusting the cuffs of my jacket as I descended. My steps were calm, but inside, I was already seething.

Damien.

My younger twin is ten minutes younger and a walking disaster. A party-loving, freedom-worshipping tornado of chaos. We looked alike—painfully so—but that's where the similarities ended. Where I saw legacy, he saw loopholes. Where I built, he burned. Where I walked a straight line, he danced over cliffs.

He had a habit of using my name like it was a VIP pass. And in most cases, it was.

Gabriel Anderson could open any door, get any woman, shut down any scandal. So Damien used it. Abused it. And left me to clean up the mess.

Jared returned, leading Katrina inside. She stormed into the living room like a bullet—tall, red-lipped, and wearing last night's party dress.

"What the hell, Gabriel?" She snapped. "You're ignoring my calls now? After everything? After all those nights? Do you even care about me?"

I stared at her, hands in my pockets, expression flat. "No."

She blinked, thrown off by the simplicity. "No?"

"No," I repeated, my tone unbothered. "Because I'm not the person you spent those nights with. Believe me or not."

Katrina scoffed, her eyes glassy. "You think I'm stupid? I know this is your house. I know who you are. And you are not going to humiliate me like you did last night and this morning."

She took a step forward, hand lifting as if to strike, but Jared was faster. He stepped between us, holding her back with firm but respectful restraint.

I didn't flinch. I was used to this.

"You are right," I said, voice low. "This is Gabriel Anderson's house. And I am Gabriel Anderson. But the man you've been sleeping with? That's not me." I pulled out my phone, opened a photo—one of the rare few where Damien and I stood side by side at a family event. He had that cocky grin he wore like a badge. I looked tired.

"That's Damien Anderson. My twin. The one who loves pretending he's me when it suits him."

Katrina snatched the phone from my hand and stared. At first, disbelief. Then confusion. Then dawning horror.

"You..." she whispered, looking between the photo and my face. "You're not him."

She noticed it. The difference in build. The posture. Damien had always been a little leaner. Whereas I was a little on the muscle side.

"Right," I said, taking my phone back. "He's the one who lied to you. Or told you whatever shit he did. Slept with you. Used my name to do it."

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked lost. Betrayed. Then embarrassed.

I didn't blame her. Not entirely. Damien had done this more times than I could count. There were tabloids that had plastered my face across headlines like Womanizer CEO Caught Again! When I hadn't been anywhere near the damn event.

Security had stopped more than one furious ex from lashing at me in restaurants. At this point, it was routine.

I pointed toward Jared. "He'll give you Damien's real address. Feel free to yell at him. Maybe bring friends." Katrina looked like she might cry, but she nodded. She didn't say thank you. She just turned on her heel and followed Jared toward the door.

Good. Let Damien deal with the fallout for once.

I checked my watch. Still on time.

Straightening my tie, I walked out toward the driveway, slid into my car, and closed the door with a muted click.

I wrapped up my final meeting for the day, the clock ticking past seven as I leaned back in my chair. The skyline of the city blinked at me through the wall of glass, but I felt no awe. I'd seen it for too many years, conquered it more than once, and yet, the emptiness still lingered.

Cole, my ever-reliable PA, knocked once before stepping inside.

"You might want to swing by Mystic Heaven, sir."

I raised an eyebrow. "Another drunken brawl?"

"Worse. The new lighting installation over the main bar shorted out. The manager's panicking. We've got influencers booked tonight."

A sigh escaped my lips. "I'll go."

Cole nodded, clearly relieved. He knew I liked my clubs running as smoothly as my board meetings.

Mystic Heaven was only a fifteen-minute drive from the office. The place was designed to dazzle — mirrored ceilings, cascading crystal chandeliers, and curved booths bathed in ambient light. But as I walked into the private entrance and took the stairs up to my office overlooking the main floor, my mood was far from dazzled.

"Whiskey. Double," I told the bar assistant who'd rushed up with a clipboard.

"Yes, sir."

I quickly handled the issue—faulty wiring due to a rushed contractor, now fixed. I barked a few orders, signed off on the changes, and dismissed everyone with a wave.

Drink in hand, I loosened my tie and leaned against the tall window of my office. From here, I had the perfect view of the main floor. I was ready to leave when something stopped me.

A woman. Sitting alone at the bar.

My eyes found her and refused to let go.

She wore a deep red backless dress that dipped low, exposing the kind of smooth, pale skin that poets wrote about. Her shoulders were bare, the delicate line of her spine visible like a stroke of art. Her hair was tied up, but a few tendrils had fallen loose, curling around her neck and cheeks in a way that made me wonder if they always disobeyed like that.

She was beautiful.

But that wasn't what made it impossible to look away.

She looked... sad. Like she didn't belong there, and yet belonged everywhere. Like she had stepped straight out of a dream and into my club — radiant, and yet completely out of reach.

Her gaze was distant, locked onto nothing. She downed a drink with ease, her fingers trembling ever so slightly as she handed the empty glass to the bartender.

What was she thinking about?

Before I knew what I was doing, I was out of my office. Walking through the corridor, down the stairs. My heartbeat had picked up — strange, because I was always in control. My mind didn't act on impulse. But now, I couldn't think clearly. The dress she wore, the way she sat with poise and fragility tangled together — it had wrecked something inside me.

I reached the bar.

She hadn't noticed me.

"Refill," she said softly, her voice carrying just enough to reach the bartender.

"Put it on the house," I heard myself say.

That made her turn.

And when she did, the world stilled.

Our eyes locked.

Her eyes were a shade I couldn't name — somewhere between stormy skies and melted silver. They widened a fraction, her lips parting slightly. She took me in — and I mean really looked at me — as if memorizing my face for a crime scene sketch.

God, she was studying me.

My chest tightened. My pride inflated.

And then, as if waking up from a fog, she blinked and turned away.

"That won't be necessary," she said, her tone clipped. "I'm very much capable of paying and taking care of myself."

She downed the next drink like it was water.

I blinked.

What?

That was... new.

The women I met usually fell into two categories: the greedy and the giddy. She was neither. And I had no idea how to handle it.

A slow smirk crawled up my face.

Challenge accepted.

I took the stool beside her, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. "Now, it wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me to let a woman as beautiful as you pay for something so petty."

She didn't look at me. "Well then," she said flatly, "it's a good thing I'm not used to having gentlemen in my life."

Damn.

"That's a shame," I replied smoothly. "Because I happen to be one of the rare ones. Limited edition. Signed and sealed." Where was the flirting even coming from?

Her lips twitched, like she might smile. But she didn't.

"Do you always hand out free drinks and compliments?"

"Only to women who make red dresses look like a sin." That made her glance at me sideways, the barest spark of amusement flickering in her eyes.

"Then I must be a walking warning. The one that says 'stay away'."

"Then I'll be the fool who ignores it just to get burned," I murmured.

She snorted softly, finally allowing the tiniest curve of a smile to touch her lips.

"You talk like a man who's used to getting what he wants."

"And you talk like a woman who's used to denying men exactly that."

"Smart boy."

I chuckled. "Would it offend your stubborn pride if I asked for your name?"

She turned to me then, really turned, and leaned in.

Too close.

Her perfume was intoxicating — jasmine and danger.

"It would," she whispered, her lips so close to mine I forgot how to breathe. Her perfectly manicured nail trailed down the line of my jaw, slowly. I swallowed hard. My pants tightened.

"Because I'm not one of those typical women you can woo with money and looks." Then she smirked. "Good night, Mr. Gentleman."

And she slipped off the stool like she floated, walking away with her head high and her hips swaying like they had a rhythm all their own.

She didn't look back.

I stared.

Still panting.

Still reeling.

Still craving more.

"What the hell just happened?" I muttered to myself.

And for the first time in years, I felt something new, something electric — the thrill of the chase.