Her friends sent her to a millionaire as a joke, but his reaction made every person at the table stop laughing.

When the matte-black sedan pulled up in front of Maple Street Books, Emily expected a modest gathering of curious onlookers.

She was vastly, catastrophically mistaken.

The sidewalk outside the quaint, ivy-draped independent bookstore was packed. There were at least a dozen reporters holding microphones bearing local news network logos, flashbulbs popping like continuous lightning storms, and a cluster of teenagers holding up phones livestreaming the storefront.

Emily slumped down in the back seat so fast her forehead bounced off the armrest.

“Ow,” she mumbled, rubbing her brow.

“Are you alright?” Daniel asked, leaning over with genuine concern in his voice.

“I am currently experiencing a localized apocalypse,” Emily groaned from the footwell of the car. “Look at them! They look like hyenas circling a wounded gazelle. If I open that door, I’m going to be blinded by flashbulbs and asked invasive questions about your net worth.”

Daniel looked out the tinted window, his jaw tightening. The relaxed, teasing demeanor he had worn all morning evaporated instantly, replaced by the chilling, corporate armor of a billionaire CEO accustomed to crushing opposition.

“Stay here,” Daniel instructed, his voice low and firm.

“What? No! Don’t go out there, they’ll swarm you!”

Before she could grab his sleeve, Daniel pushed the door open and stepped out onto the sunlit pavement.

The reaction was instantaneous. Shouts erupted from the crowd like a wave crashing against a seawall. Microphones thrust forward, camcorders whirred, and reporters began shouting overlapping questions.

*“Mr. Brooks! Is the rumor true? Are you dating the bookstore clerk?”*

*“Mr. Brooks! Did you engineer this romance for PR?”*

*“Daniel! Over here! Who is Emily Carter?”*

Daniel did not flinch. He stood tall, adjusting his suit jacket, his expression carved from granite. He raised a single hand, and the sheer force of his presence—coupled with the terrifying reputation of Brooks Applied Technologies—caused the shouting to gradually subside into a tense, expectant murmur.

“Good morning,” Daniel said, his voice carrying clearly across the street, picked up by a dozen sensitive audio booms. “I am here to drop off a friend at her workplace. Ms. Carter is a private citizen, a hardworking professional, and a brilliant woman. Any harassment directed at her, her workplace, or her personal life will be met with aggressive legal action by my firm’s legal team. Consider yourselves warned.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the cameramen seemed momentarily stunned by the blunt, unapologetic threat.

Taking advantage of the shock, Daniel turned back to the car, opened the door, and extended a gloved—wait, no, bare, warm—hand toward the footwell.

Emily looked up at him, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She took a deep breath, placed her hand in his, and let him pull her out into the blinding light.

Flashes exploded around them. Emily squeezed her eyes shut for a microsecond, leaning into Daniel’s side as he wrapped a protective arm around her waist, shielding her from the worst of the angles. With swift, decisive steps, he guided her past the sea of reporters, up the stone steps of Maple Street Books, and straight through the front glass door.

Inside, the bell chimed cheerfully, completely out of sync with the chaotic storm raging outside.

The interior of the bookstore was empty of customers, but standing behind the front counter, looking pale and wide-eyed, was Mrs. Higgins, the seventy-two-year-old owner of the shop, alongside Sarah, the part-time cashier.

Mrs. Higgins lowered a hardcover copy of *Pride and Prejudice* she had been holding like a weapon.

“Emily,” Mrs. Higgins breathed, adjusting her cat-eye glasses. “There are news vans outside. In thirty-five years of business, the only time we had a news crew here was when the mayor cut the ribbon for our wheelchair ramp.”

Emily buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with a mixture of mortification and hysteria. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Higgins. I can resign. I can quit right now so you don’t have to deal with this circus—”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Higgins snapped sharply, though her eyes twinkled with a mischievous spark. “Resign? And miss out on having a tech billionaire stand in my mystery section? Do you know how many copies of biographies we’d sell if he signed a few autographs? Welcome to Maple Street Books, Mr. Brooks.”

Daniel offered a polite, surprisingly warm smile, shaking the elderly owner’s frail hand. “Thank you for harboring us, Mrs. Higgins. I promise to compensate the store for any disruption.”

“Compensation? Nonsense, young man. Just help me restock the top shelves; my arthritis has been acting up since Tuesday.”

Emily stared at her boss in sheer disbelief. *Restock the top shelves? Did Mrs. Higgins just draft a billionaire into manual labor?*

To Emily’s absolute shock, Daniel didn’t hesitate. He shrugged off his charcoal suit jacket, draped it neatly over a nearby chair, rolled up his crisp white shirt sleeves to reveal remarkably muscular forearms, and turned to Mrs. Higgins.

“Point me toward the ladder, ma’am.”

For the next two hours, the bookstore was a surreal bubble of normalcy amidst a digital hurricane. While reporters milled about outside like confused ants, Daniel Brooks—founder of a multi-billion-dollar empire—stood on a wobbly wooden ladder in the back of a dusty independent bookstore, meticulously alphabetizing nineteenth-century British literature under the watchful eye of Mrs. Higgins.

Emily stood behind the cash register, watching him. Her chest felt tight, constricting in a way that had nothing to do with panic and everything to do with a sudden, overwhelming rush of affection.

Jason would never have done that. Jason would have complained about the dust, worried about his designer clothes getting wrinkled, and blamed Emily for causing a scene.

Daniel, on the other hand, was currently debating the literary merits of Jane Austen with an elderly woman who threatened to hit him with a rolled-up copy of *War and Peace* if he misplaced a volume.

Around noon, the front door chime rang.

Emily looked up, expecting another aggressive reporter, but instead saw a familiar, guilt-ridden face pushing through the entrance.

Olivia.

Her best friend stood in the doorway, holding a brown paper bag from a local bakery, looking like a puppy that had chewed up a very expensive rug.

Emily crossed her arms, leaning against the counter. “Well, look who decided to brave the firing squad.”

Olivia hurried over, sliding past the bookshelves, and threw her hands up defensively. “I’m sorry! I am so, so sorry! I didn’t think the livestream would blow up like a nuclear bomb! I swear I thought it would just be a funny story for our group chat!”

“Our group chat now has forty-five thousand members, Olivia,” Emily deadpanned. “Including several tech bloggers who are currently trying to dox my childhood pets.”

“I brought cinnamon rolls!” Olivia offered pathetically, holding out the paper bag like a peace offering. “Warm ones. With extra cream cheese frosting.”

Emily stared at the bag, then at Olivia’s terrified expression, and finally let out a long, defeated sigh. A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“You are a menace, Olivia.”

“I know,” Olivia whispered happily, leaning against the counter. She peeked over toward the mystery section, where Daniel was currently handing a heavy leather-bound volume down to Mrs. Higgins with effortless grace. Olivia’s jaw dropped. “Wait… is that Daniel Brooks? Alphabetizing your thriller section? Emily, where did you find this man, and can I clone him?”

Before Emily could answer, the front door was kicked wide open—not by reporters, but by someone much worse.

A tall, impeccably groomed man in a tailored charcoal suit marched into the store. His slicked-back blonde hair, sharp features, and arrogant smirk were instantly recognizable.

Jason.