Chapter 2

I thought that was the end of it.

Honestly, for a man who called himself an "investment bank VP," treated things like "seeing the Northern Lights in Aetheria" and "skiing in Silvervein" as peak conversation topics, and casually labeled a woman he'd just met as "too ordinary", he wasn't worth getting mad over. Blocking and deleting him felt like the cleanest way to close the book.

But I underestimated my brother Gavin's talent for stirring things up, and Logan's persistence.

Monday morning, I went to Lumina, the restaurant I actually care about. It's small, tucked away at the end of a quiet street in the old district, lined with red oak trees. I oversaw the entire design myself. There's a lot of oak wood, red brick, and hand-forged brass. No lit-up sign outside. Instead, a friend of mine painted the logo directly onto the glass with gold leaf. We don't advertise. Most of our customers come through word of mouth or regulars. Reservations are booked three months out.

I was in the kitchen, working with Lawrence on a new beef brisket dish, when Xavier Sterling, the front-of-house manager, hurried in. His expression looked a little off. "Ms. Morris, there's a guest outside asking for you by name."

"Who?" I wiped my hands. Regulars don't usually do this.

"He says his last name is Grant. A friend of yours?" Xavier sounded unsure.

I walked over to the carved screen that separated the kitchen from the dining area and glanced out.

Logan.

He wasn't in a suit today. He wore a casual Tom Ford outfit, a light gray cashmere sweater, and black pants. His hair was styled perfectly. In his hand, he held a dark blue velvet box. He stood near the dry landscape display by the entrance, looking relaxed, but his eyes kept scanning the room, measuring, evaluating.

How did he find this place? Lumina didn't promote itself.

Then it clicked. Robert from Summit Bistro probably wouldn't share my information, but Lumina isn't exactly a secret among serious food people or investors. Especially not if someone is actively asking around about "the Morris family's daughter."

I frowned. I didn't want a scene in the main dining room. "Take him to the Raindrop private room. Tell him I'll be there soon."

I told Lawrence to keep working on the dish, poured myself a cup of coffee, and walked over slowly.

The moment I opened the door, Logan stood up. A flawless smile spread across his face, warmer and more genuine than the one he wore at Summit Bistro.

"Ms. Morris, I'm sorry to drop by unannounced." He stepped forward and held out the velvet box. "A small gift, to apologize for my behavior this weekend."

I didn't take it. I walked past him, sat down across the table, and gestured for him to sit. "Mr. Grant, I appreciate the apology. That's enough. The gift isn't necessary."

His smile didn't change. He placed the box on the table anyway and sat down. "I insist. I didn't recognize who you were that day and said some inappropriate things. I hope you won't take it to heart." He glanced around the room, his tone full of admiration. "This place is impressive. Elegant, thoughtful. I've heard the chef is hard to book. Ms. Morris, the fact that you've built something like this really shows your ability."

He no longer mentioned my "easy marketing job." Now, he was praising my "ability." The shift was smooth. Almost effortless.

"Mr. Grant, you didn't come all the way here just to drop off a gift and praise my restaurant, did you?" I asked directly.

He paused, then leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, a move meant to close the distance. "Ms. Morris, you're very straightforward. So I'll be honest too," he said. "After this weekend, I did a lot of thinking. I realized I was shallow. I judged you based on one meeting. But your composure and presence are actually very unique. I'd like a chance to get to know you again."

He sounded sincere. His eyes stayed locked on mine, like I was his only focus.

"Get to know me again?" I raised a brow. "Because I'm Gavin's sister, or because I own Lumina?"

His expression stiffened for a split second, then recovered. "Because of you," he said smoothly. "Your background and your work only make me regret how narrow-minded I was before. Ms. Morris, I mean it."

I took a sip of coffee and said nothing.

He pressed on. "There's a private gallery nearby. They have a small exhibit this afternoon. If you're interested, we could go together. We could start with art. I've been getting into abstract expressionism lately."

"Mr. Grant." I cut him off and set my cup down. It made a soft tap against the table. "I'm not interested in the exhibit. And I'm not interested in you. Is that clear enough?"

His smile finally slipped. His lips tightened, and a flash of irritation crossed his eyes. But he quickly covered it, replacing it with patient understanding. "I understand. You're still upset," he said. "That's okay. I can wait."

I almost laughed. 'Wait? How much of his "waiting" was for me, and how much was for my brother's connections, or my family's resources?'

"Mr. Grant, your time is valuable," I said, standing up. It was a clear signal that the meeting was over. "You're an investment bank VP. You probably make millions in minutes. No need to waste it on someone as 'too ordinary' as me. Please, see yourself out."

He stood as well and looked at me for a long moment. His expression was complicated, with annoyance, calculation, and something close to determination. "Ms. Morris, don't be so sure," he said. "We'll be seeing each other again."

He picked up the velvet box he never managed to give me and walked out. His posture was still straight, but there was tension in his steps now.

I rubbed my temple. 'Trouble.'

And sure enough, over the next few days, trouble showed up in every form.

Every day, a bouquet of roses arrived, flown in fresh. The card had a printed line of poetry in gold foil, signed with a cursive "S."

My inbox started filling with industry reports, high-end dining trends, and investment white papers, all somehow related to my restaurant's concept. The sender was anonymous, but the tone was polished and very intentional.

One day, I even received an invitation to a charity gala. It was hosted by a foundation closely tied to Logan's firm. My name was handwritten on the invite, right next to his.

I gave the roses to my staff. Deleted the reports. Tore up the invitation and threw it away.

But the pressure from my mom only got worse.

Somehow, probably through Aunt May, Logan got word to her. Messages like "he reflected deeply," "he's very sincere," and "he really admires Kylie" kept reaching her. The phone calls doubled.

"Kylie, he's trying so hard! Flowers every day, sending you useful materials, where do you find a man this thoughtful?"

"That was just a misunderstanding before! Now he sees your value. Don't be so stubborn."

"And your brother didn't help, posting that in the group probably scared him. What a shame, this could've been something good,"

"Listen to me. Just give him another chance. Dinner, a movie, what's the harm?"

What could I do? I just gave vague answers, made excuses, and hung up as soon as I could.