Chapter 3
Vivienne Hayes's mind went blank, as if a sudden gust had swept away every thought. Her legs felt rooted to the rain-slicked pavement. A sleek black car streaked past, a dark arrow slicing through the night. The car's wake hurled her backward, and she crashed onto the cold ground. Reason suggested the driver would disappear into the shadows—unseen, unaccountable. But fate intervened. The car's engine rumbled, swinging back to a stop near where she lay.
The passenger door opened with measured elegance, and a figure emerged. Polished black leather shoes met the wet asphalt, followed by a dark umbrella shielding its owner from the relentless rain. "Are you alright?" The rich, resonant voice belonged to Derek Hopkins.
Vivienne's eyes lifted, tracing the man before her. His face was strikingly sculpted—angular lines and a strong jaw hinting at quiet strength. But it was his eyes that captivated her: deep, magnetic, stirring a faint, familiar echo in her soul.
"I'm fine, thank you…" Her voice was a fragile whisper, barely audible above the rain.
She pushed herself up, but a jolt of pain shot through her injured legs and foot. She stumbled, but a firm arm circled her waist before she fell. She collided with a solid chest, Derek's cool presence enveloping her like a winter breeze. Her hands pressed against his surprisingly warm chest, a stark contrast to his icy demeanor.
The clash of sensations—his chill against her warmth—dizzied her. She instinctively pulled back, but Derek tightened his hold, effortlessly lifting her into his arms. "What are you doing? Let me down!" Her words were sharp, her expression hardening.
The closeness deeply unsettled her. Even Warren, after three years, had never gone beyond a handshake. This stranger's audacity challenged her carefully constructed walls.
Derek's gaze met hers, calm and unwavering. "You're hurt. You need a hospital."
"I can manage," she countered, though his proximity sent unease rippling through her, his cold aura a tangible presence.
"Stay still." His commanding tone quelled her protests.
Inside the car, the frigid air elicited a sneeze. Derek adjusted the climate control, then, noticing her shivers, draped his jacket over her shoulders with unexpected gentleness. "Don't get sick."
"Thank you." The jacket carried his subtle, warm scent, quickening her pulse. A fleeting spark of humor danced in Derek's eyes as he noticed her blush. "I should be thanking you," he said.
She frowned, puzzled. "For what?"
"For accepting my apology," he replied, his voice steady. "And for letting me make this right."
They reached the hospital. Though Vivienne insisted on walking, her injuries betrayed her resolve. Derek patiently kept pace with her limping steps until she was treated. Upon her return, bandaged and weary, he was on a call, his tall frame silhouetted against the sterile walls. He ended the call abruptly and handed her a business card. "My contact details. Call if you need anything."
"I won't need anything more," she said firmly, closing the encounter. She offered him his jacket. "Take it. I'll pay for the cleaning."
Derek's lips curved into a faint, enigmatic smile. "Keep it. It suits you better."
The simple gesture affected her more than it should have. She blamed the day—the betrayal, the exhaustion, the near-death experience. That, she reasoned, was why a stranger's kindness felt so profound.
"Thank you, but I should go," she murmured, her voice softening. She straightened, her resolve firming her spine, and walked away, intent on returning to the Mitchell family home.
Derek watched her go, his eyes holding an unreadable glint. "We'll cross paths again," he murmured to the empty air.