Lilac Ambrose hated silence. It wasn't that she feared quiet moments; it was the weight that came with them—the kind of weight that reminded you of the things you didn't say, the truths you ignored, and the secrets that tried to rot you from the inside out.
She walked down the nearly empty street, her boots clicking in a sharp rhythm against the pavement. The city was winding down, but the neon signs above her flickered like ghosts that refused to sleep. It was a quarter past midnight, and the restaurant she'd gone to with friends had long since closed its doors behind her. But Lilac didn't mind the late hours. She liked the edge they gave the night—the sense that anything could happen.
She tucked her leather jacket tighter around her frame and adjusted the strap of her bag. A cool breeze drifted between the buildings, sending a shiver up her spine, though she wouldn't admit it to herself. Fear was a luxury she didn't allow. Not anymore.
But the feeling started anyway—slow and creeping. That sixth sense women develop from too many cautionary tales and reality checks. It whispered along her skin like static.
She glanced back. Three men. Slightly staggering, voices rising in volume behind her.
Not good.
She quickened her pace, her breath hitching. They followed. Close now.
"Hey! Where you going, pretty thing?" one of them called, his voice thick with alcohol and arrogance.
Her fingers slipped into her jacket pocket and curled tightly around her small canister of pepper spray.
"Don't ignore us, babe!"
Lilac turned a sharp corner into a less crowded alley—bad move. She realized it too late, but doubling back would mean crossing directly past them.
A silhouette broke from the shadows.
"Aw, come on, don't play hard to get," the tallest one said, walking faster now.
She turned, her back hitting the wall of the alley as she pulled the spray free.
"Don't come any closer," she said, voice firm despite the pounding of her heart.
They didn't listen.
One of them—short, broad shoulders, an ugly smirk—lunged.
She tried to raise the canister, but he caught her wrist mid-air and yanked her forward. She stumbled, her back scraping brick. His grip was rough, fingers digging into her skin.
"You really think this is how you want tonight to go?" he grinned.
"Let her go."
The voice came from the mouth of the alley. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous.
All three men turned.
He stepped into view—tall, dressed in black from coat to boots, face partially shadowed but unmistakably calm. And that was the most terrifying part. He wasn't angry. He wasn't shouting. He looked… collected. Focused. As if this wasn't the first time he'd faced men like them. As if he didn't expect to lose.
"Walk away," he repeated, this time stepping closer.
"Mind your business," one of the men snapped. "This has nothing to do with you."
"You touched her. That makes it my business."
"Yeah? What are you gonna do about it?"
They didn't see him move—only felt it.
One second he was still. The next, the first man was sprawled on the ground, clutching his jaw and moaning in pain. The second went for him, fist swinging wild. The stranger ducked low, grabbed the man's coat, and slammed him against the wall. The third ran before he could even decide if he wanted to fight.
Lilac stared in stunned silence, her breath shallow. She'd been ready to fight, to scream, to bite if she had to. But now she just stood there, blinking at the stranger who had turned to face her.
He wasn't out of breath. His face didn't twist in triumph or anger. He simply looked at her with eyes the color of storm clouds, unreadable and heavy.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
She shook her head. "No. I mean… no, I'm okay."
"You're shaking."
"I'm just cold." It was a lie. She hated lying, but the truth felt too vulnerable.
He didn't call her out on it. Just gave a short nod.
"Do you live nearby?"
"About ten minutes, but—" She paused. "I'm not walking the rest of the way. Not after that."
"I'll drive you," he said. No hesitation.
Lilac hesitated for the both of them. This was the part in every warning story where the girl made a stupid choice. But this didn't feel like that. He wasn't trying to comfort her. He wasn't asking for her name or touching her arm to reassure her. He simply waited.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Just let me grab my phone."
He led her back toward the street. His car was parked neatly on the curb—a sleek, black Aston Martin, expensive and silent.
"You some kind of secret agent?" she asked as he opened the door for her.
"No." He offered the faintest smirk. "Just someone who doesn't like cowards."
She slid in, watching him circle the car. His movements were precise—disciplined, like a man trained to survive. As he started the engine, the city lights flashed across his profile: sculpted jawline, tousled black hair, eyes that looked like they'd forgotten how to smile.
"I'm Lilac," she offered as the car began to move. "Lilac Ambrose."
He glanced at her. "Tristan. Tristan Caine."
"Like the Caine empire?" she asked, surprised.
His jaw tightened slightly. "Unfortunately."
Silence followed, but it wasn't heavy. Not for her.
"Thank you for helping me."
"You don't have to thank me."
"Most people would've looked the other way."
"I'm not most people."
That made her smile.
They stopped in front of her apartment. She didn't move.
"Would you let me buy you dinner?" she asked suddenly.
His brow raised. "Dinner?"
"You saved me. I owe you."
"I didn't do it for a favor."
"I know. But I want to thank you properly."
He studied her for a moment. The wind outside whispered along the glass. She thought he might say no.
But then— "Okay."
Just one word. But something shifted. The night, the air between them, the feeling that fate had spun something into motion.
She stepped out of the car, turned back, and gave him a mischievous grin.
"See you tomorrow then, Mr. Caine."
And before he could reply, she was gone.
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End of Chapter 1