Chapter 1

Rae

I wipe a sticky ring off the bar top with an old cloth, trying to keep my composure while the jukebox switches from classic hip-hop to a guitar-heavy ballad. It’s close to midnight in this Brooklyn dive, and the regulars are either half-asleep on their stools or gone for the night. The place is a worn brick building with a neon beer sign flickering in the window, the kind of spot that feels like it’s been around for decades without a single renovation. I like it here—even when the lingering smell of whiskey, disinfectant, and stale sweat clings to my clothes long after I leave.

My hair is in small twists tonight, pulled back so it won’t brush into people’s drinks as I hustle behind this cramped bar. I’m not tall, but I’m used to drawing attention with my direct stare. In a world that’s tried to reduce me to my upbringing—a Black girl raised in foster care, now stuck wiping counters for tips—I’ve learned to hold my head high. My skin is the color of dark caramel, an inheritance from a mother I barely got to know. I lost her to a harsh reality years back, and she left me with debts I’m still struggling to pay. That’s why I’m here, mixing cheap cocktails for Brooklyn’s night owls and turning my sarcasm into self-defense.

Tonight, though, I’m more on edge than usual because the manager stepped out early, leaving me to handle the last wave of customers alone. My wrists ache from popping open beer bottles, and the tips aren’t exactly flowing. A tired-looking man at the far end signals for another round, and I oblige by sliding him a lukewarm beer. We exchange half-smiles without conversation. I check my phone under the bar, hoping for a positive notification—a payment, a cleared bill, anything that might ease my stress. Of course, there’s nothing.

I attempt to distract myself by scanning the peeling paint on the walls. I imagine the stories that might be hidden in all these cracks, but it doesn’t help much. My mind roams back to my credit card statements waiting for me at home. If I start doing sums in my head, I’ll sink into that dark place I’ve spent years trying to outrun, so I force myself to focus on the present. One hour until closing.

The front door swings open with a low groan. A man enters, pausing under the limp light fixture that flickers overhead. He’s tall, well above six feet, with angular features. His hair is dark, trimmed neatly, and his suit looks more expensive than anything I’ve ever seen in person. A strange hush falls over the bar, even though nobody’s paying him direct attention. Something about him carries an intensity I can’t quite name, like he’s arrived in the wrong movie set but fully intends to steal the scene anyway.

I steady my breathing as I notice his posture. He stands as though the space belongs to him, arms loose at his sides but shoulders held back. The tailored jacket hints at broad muscles, and a polished watch glints on his wrist. Most men who come in here at this hour are either day laborers finishing a shift or broke artists craving cheap whiskey. This stranger doesn’t fit either profile.

He glances around, taking in every corner, before his gaze lands on me. I get a full-force hit of his cool stare, the color hard to pinpoint—somewhere between steel and charcoal. I raise my eyebrows in silent question. He steps closer, ignoring the empty tables and heading straight for the bar. One of the regulars attempts eye contact with him but quickly looks away. This man exudes something akin to silent command. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a wealthy suit wander in, but there’s a crackle in the air tonight that sets my nerves humming.

He leans an elbow on the bar, and I catch a faint whiff of cologne with a subtle spice, like teakwood. His gaze slides over me, pausing on my name tag. It’s just a cheap plastic badge that says “R. Monroe,” which is what passes for formal identification in here. I pretend not to notice how he lingers on the letters.

I clear my throat. “You look like you took a wrong turn. The fancy bar with the violin music is two blocks down.”

That earns me the slightest shift in his expression, not exactly a smile but a glimmer of interest. “I didn’t come here for violins.”

The low timbre of his voice is disconcerting, as if he’s holding back a wave of something. I keep my response even. “What can I get you?”

“Scotch,” he says, checking the row of bottles behind me. “Neat.”

“Sure.” I grab a glass, rummage for the decent scotch at the far end of the shelf. As I pour, I sense him studying me, the same way someone might examine an object that doesn’t quite fit their expectations. I set the drink down in front of him, and he traces the rim of the glass with one fingertip. The tiny movement feels oddly intimate. Maybe I’m imagining it because exhaustion is creeping in.

He lifts the glass, and I see his knuckles flex against the crisp white shirt cuff. Something about the fluid motion of his wrist draws my gaze, and I have to snap out of it. “So,” I say, trying to maintain a normal rhythm in my voice. “Are you meeting someone?”

The corner of his mouth tenses. “No.”

“Just needed a strong drink?”

“You could say that.”

I nod, swallowing my curiosity. As I lean back against the small counter behind me, I notice him scanning the bar again with a sense of calculation. The overhead light catches on his cheekbones, highlighting the angles of his face. He has an aura that suggests secrets, layered behind a carefully composed exterior.

A faint beep from the bartender’s phone behind me draws my attention. It’s probably a spam email about some discount sale I can’t afford. I let out a small sigh. My life is a closed circle of rent notices, leftover hospital bills, and restless nights spent wondering if I’ll ever break free. People like him—wealthy, unattainable men in perfectly tailored suits—usually view folks like me as background noise. Yet here he is, focused on me like we’re partners in some conversation that hasn’t even begun.

He finishes half the scotch and sets the glass down gently. “I don’t see a name tag beyond the initial. R. Monroe.” He taps the cheap plastic label with a single knuckle. “Mind telling me what the R stands for?”

I cross my arms. “R stands for Rae. Rae Monroe.”

I expect no real reaction. Most people just nod and ask for a refill, but he goes still. His fingers clench around the glass so tightly that I’m worried it might crack. The rigid set of his jaw reveals something akin to surprise—or alarm.

He exhales in a slow, controlled way. It’s as if he’s measuring each breath before letting it escape. “Your full name is Raelynn Monroe?”

His voice drops when he says it, and I feel a chill that has nothing to do with the broken air conditioning. Why is he looking at me like this? The tension swirling around us is thick, practically tangible. A couple of the regulars glance over curiously before returning to their half-finished drinks.

“That’s my government name,” I say with a shrug, forcing casualness. “Usually I go by Rae. Care to explain why you’re so interested?”

He looks as if he’s assembling pieces of a puzzle in his head. “It’s a memorable name.”

“Is it?” I let out a half-laugh. “Because last time I checked, it’s not exactly on the VIP list at the Waldorf.”

He sips the scotch again, gaze never leaving me. “You’d be surprised how memorable that name can be.” He sets the glass down, eyes narrowing slightly. “Do you work here every night?”

“Mostly,” I reply, more puzzled than ever. “We get plenty of tips in the evenings. The day shift is dead.”

He doesn’t respond right away. There’s a pause where he seems to weigh his next words. Then he breaks eye contact long enough to fish out a sleek, impossibly expensive-looking wallet. He drops a bill that’s far too large for a single glass of scotch. I stare at the currency for a moment, stunned. The man doesn’t wait for me to protest.

“Keep the change,” he says, and there’s a finality in his tone that suggests any argument would be useless.

“Sure you don’t want anything else?” My pride is itching. Part of me hates feeling as though I’m on the receiving end of some pity tip. Then again, if he’s offering, I won’t say no. My overhead is past due.

He glances at me, and I can almost feel him battling with questions. “Another time,” he replies. Then he lifts his chin slightly. “I’ll be leaving now, but before I do, can you say your full name again?”

Funny for him to ask when he already guessed my name. I grip the edge of the bar. My instincts tell me something is off about this request. Maybe he’s a bored executive looking for trouble or a con artist who’s latched onto the name for some reason. Pressure coils in my chest at the memory of the last time I trusted a stranger too quickly—I ended up short on rent and short on hope.

But I say it anyway, “Raelynn Monroe.”

He nods, a muscle shifting in his jaw. “Thank you.”

As he turns, I raise my voice slightly. “You know, it’s polite to introduce yourself too.”

He half-glances over his shoulder. The overhead light washes over his sharp profile, giving me an even clearer view of his refined features. “It’s Nico,” he says at last. “Nico Vale.”

My heart thumps once, hard. I think I’ve heard that surname before in random business columns or an online headline about a takeover. Could be my imagination, but something about Vale rings a bell. I don’t let him see my sudden spark of curiosity. Instead, I maintain an even tone. “Thanks for the large tip, Nico Vale.”

He strides to the door, and just before he steps outside, he looks back. The tension in his posture has gone from mild to taut. When his eyes meet mine, I sense a hundred questions swirling behind them. He lowers his gaze in a sort of goodbye. Then, in three long steps, he’s gone.

I stare at the spot where he stood. It feels as if the bar itself has exhaled, the presence of that stranger leaving a rippling silence in his wake. I blow out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, then check the bill he left. It’s bigger than my usual tip for an entire night. Maybe I should be grateful, but my mind is still stuck on that strange moment. He reacted like I’d just revealed an explosive secret.

“Who was that?” mutters one of the regulars, a woman sipping gin at the end of the bar.

I shrug. “No clue, but you can bet he doesn’t usually hang around these parts.”

The woman snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. He had that corporate vibe, you know? Like he’d buy us out just for fun.”

I pretend to laugh, although my brain is racing. Corporate vibe, indeed. Didn’t I read something online about a Vale empire? Could be a coincidence, but the way he froze at my name has my instincts buzzing. I try to shake it off, finishing the last few tasks before closing.

I gather the bar rags and toss them into the plastic bin in the corner. My coworker, Kelly, was supposed to take over an hour ago, but she called in sick. So I hustle to stack clean glasses, wipe the counters, and count the drawer. My reflection in the tarnished mirror behind the bar looks wary. Usually I’m proud of my own resilience, but right now I’m grappling with a sense of questions I can’t answer.

When I finally lock up, the city greets me with dim streetlights and a swirl of half-burnt leaves drifting along the sidewalk. I shiver in my worn denim jacket as I head to the bus stop. The tip from Nico Vale is safe in my pocket, and I can’t stop replaying our exchange in my mind. There was an undercurrent in his gaze, something urgent yet withheld.

My mother once told me that some meetings are more than coincidences, that the universe enjoys weaving unpredictability into our days. I used to roll my eyes at her, but right now I feel a tug in my chest that I can’t dismiss. Why did he seem to recognize my name? Raelynn Monroe isn’t exactly topping the charts of notable figures. I grip the strap of my bag, reminding myself I’ve got bigger problems than a mysterious stranger—namely rent, overdue electric, and the last chunk of my mother’s hospital bills.

Still, as the bus rumbles along the dark streets, I catch myself staring out the window, imagining him stepping into a sleek black car or heading to a penthouse with panoramic city views. Men like that don’t drift into a run-down bar in Brooklyn without a reason. He must have been looking for something. Or someone.

When I reach my modest apartment building, I can’t shake that deep curiosity. I climb the stairs, unlocking my door to find the place quiet and cramped as always. The single lamp in my living room flickers for a moment when I turn it on, and I vow to call the landlord again in the morning. Dropping my keys on the small kitchen table, I take out my phone and type in “Nico Vale” with a shrug, half-expecting no immediate results.

Except the search auto-fills: “Nico Vale Vale Holdings.” My breath hitches. “CEO indicted in major controversy,” says one headline. I scroll further. “Billionaire Son, or Self-Made?” “Successor to Elias Harrow.” It’s like falling into a rabbit hole of corporate articles and finance gossip. The man who walked into that bar is a big deal, the kind who rarely mingles with ordinary folks unless it benefits him. My name must have triggered something in his mind, but I have no idea what.

I lean against the couch, letting the articles load. Glancing at headlines about Vale Holdings’ net worth nearly makes my stomach flip. Meanwhile, I’m counting quarters for laundry. I close the browser and switch off my phone, fighting the urge to feel intimidated. Maybe I’ll never see him again. Maybe he’ll remain nothing more than a bizarre memory of a random night when a billionaire strolled into a dingy place that smells like spilled beer.

Tomorrow morning, I’ll still be me—Raelynn “Rae” Monroe, an underpaid bartender wearing scuffed sneakers. That’s real life. And yet, as I attempt to relax on my couch, I can’t ignore how my heart is still thumping from the intensity I felt when he said my name. His question echoing through my thoughts: “Your full name is Raelynn Monroe?”

I try to get comfortable, but the worn cushions poke me in the ribs. My mind drifts to the possibility that maybe he’ll come back, or maybe he has some motive. That unsettling sense of something bigger looming around the corner won’t let me sleep. A peculiar excitement flutters low in my stomach, though I’d hate to call it that.

I shut my eyes and exhale, forcing myself to let the moment pass. In a few hours, the sun will rise on another day. I have to be at the bar again, since double shifts are the only way I manage to keep the lights on. If Nico Vale ever returns, I’ll decide then how to handle it. For now, I settle into the silence, vowing to handle whatever comes next with the same determined spirit that’s kept me afloat all these years.

But as sleep finally drags me under, a single question hangs in the dark: Why did my name matter so much to him?

I guess I’ll find out eventually.