The polished glass doors of Le Vin Élite glided open with a soft, pneumatic whoosh, and I swept inside with the rigid posture of a woman who had reached her absolute limit with the universe.
The rich, comforting aroma of oak barrels and cellared vintages hit me instantly. Rows of hand-selected Bordeaux and Grand Crus gleamed under recessed spotlights, radiating the kind of understated elegance I usually bought by the crate.
A forty-year-old executive on the brink of an existential crisis knew precisely which vintage to deploy as a sedative. I had the exact blend picked out. Unfortunately, my exterior no longer matched my cellular age or my liquid taste.
Click-clack.
My designer leather heels struck the marble flooring in a crisp, sharp tempo as I made a targeted beeline for the top-shelf section. There she was: a 2018 Château Margaux. Bold. Complex. Structurally flawless. The kind of wine that didn't apologize for its price point—much like the version of myself I had spent two decades engineering, even if I was currently wearing a body that looked like it survived on iced matcha and anxiety.
Bottle in hand, I marched toward the polished walnut counter, chin angled high. Tonight would either mark a strategic toast to surviving this biological glitch or a solitary pity party in my towncar. Either way, alcohol was non-negotiable.
The cashier, a boy in his early twenties with artfully disheveled hair and a brass tag reading Leo, barely looked up from his phone. When his eyes finally landed on the label—and then my face—his pupils dilated in pure retail panic.
"Uh. ID, please."
I blinked, my hand freezing on the velvet dust jacket of my tote. "I beg your pardon?"
Leo shifted his weight, suddenly looking like a man who regretted every career decision that had brought him to this shift. "I need to see some identification, miss. Store policy."
I flattened my brows into my best board-meeting glare. "You think I look under twenty-one?"
He shrugged, tapping his nails against the register. "Honestly? Yeah. You look like you film GRWM videos in university dorms."
I let out a sharp, incredulous breath. "That is either a glowing endorsement or an actionable insult."
Leo offered a sheepish, half-hearted grin. "Take it up with the State Liquor Authority. No physical ID, no sale."
I dug through my oversized tote, my fingers brushing against my leather wallet while my brain calculated the sheer impossibility of the situation. The State ID inside featured a forty-year-old CEO with immaculate contouring and an address in Tribeca. The face staring at Leo possessed flawless collagen, zero forehead lines, and the unblemished innocence of a post-grad. The DMV was notoriously inefficient; I doubted they had an administrative protocol for magical age regression.
"Listen to me, Leo." I leaned across the counter, dropping my voice into the precise lower register I used when settling union disputes. "I am not a sophomore trying to score cheap seltzer for a frat party. I have been drinking full-bodied Cabernets since before your age demographic discovered oat milk."
Leo raised a dubious eyebrow. "Right…"
"I was drinking Margaux when Vine was launched, when it died, and during its brief cultural resurrection, okay?"
A reluctant smirk tugged at his mouth. "Vine? Wow. My aunt used to talk about that."
I closed my eyes briefly, clutching the edge of the counter. Being age-checked by a kid who viewed iconic 2010s internet culture as ancient history was a special kind of hell.
"Leo," I reasoned, taking a slow, steadying breath. "Look at the bottle. Château Margaux 2018. It demands a pan-seared filet mignon, medium-rare, with a truffle reduction. Does that sound like the palate of someone who records dance trends for an algorithm?"
He chuckled, reaching out to gently slide the bottle back toward his side of the register. "You're terrifyingly persuasive, miss. But unless you have a government-issued card saying you were born before the millennium, I can't clear the transaction."
I stared at him, utterly defeated by state regulations and my own youthful epidermis. "Keep your overpriced inventory."
I jammed my wallet back into my bag, turned on my heel, and marched out into the cool evening air.
The crisp evening air hit my face like a cold towel, but my internal temper was boiling over so fast I failed to spot the tall figure stepping directly into my exit vector.
Thud.
I collided squarely with a wall of solid chest, my heel catching on the curb. Strong, warm hands clamped around my shoulders, steadying me before I could crash onto the pavement.
"Whoa there—easy."
I snapped my chin up, my heart doing a violent double-thud against my ribs. "Joshua?"
It was him. Six feet two inches of crisp bone structure, rumpled dark hair, and a tailored leather jacket that looked like it belonged on a European campaign poster. He stood under the streetlamp looking absurdly handsome, as if the universe routinely handed him cinematic lighting just for existing.
"Hey, Ariana," he said, his lips curving into that easy, effortless grin that usually preceded my finance department approving his modeling rates.
The fake name hit my ears like fingernails on a chalkboard. Ariana. The fictional niece I'd concocted on a panic-fueled impulse, now standing between me and my actual identity.
"What are you doing standing on the sidewalk?" I asked, adjusting my blazer and trying to salvage my composure.
Joshua tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, casting an amused glance at the store behind me, then down at my empty hands. "Wine run. Though judging by your quick exit, the sommelier wasn't feeling generous."
"A minor administrative dispute," I muttered, crossing my arms. "Apparently, looking under thirty is a felony in this district."
Joshua let out a low, gravelly chuckle. "Tough break, kiddo."
My eyes narrowed into slits. "Do not call me 'kiddo.' I will revoke your autumn campaign incentives."
He held his hands up in mock defense, his dark eyes sparkling under the city lights. "Relax, Ariana. Just teasing."
Right on cue, a sharp, double-pulse vibration thudded through my blazer pocket. I yanked out my phone, expecting another cryptically unhelpful memo from my system administrator.
[SCAL PROXIMITY ALERT]: High-Value Romantic Catalyst Detected. Deploy Immediate Engagement Protocol.
My stomach twisted into a hard knot. Deploy engagement? The system was actively orchestrating a romance scenario between me and my own brand's lead model.
Joshua leaned in slightly, his sharp eyes catching the bright blue glow of the display. "Important business?"
I jammed the phone back into my pocket, locking the screen with a loud click. "Just… an invasive algorithm that doesn't understand boundaries."
He tilted his head, his gaze lingering on my face with an analytical intensity that made my pulse jump. "You know, if you're looking for a proper pour without a federal investigation, there's a quiet speakeasy two blocks down. No carding, no pretense, exceptional Cabernet."
I hesitated, my executive instincts screaming a red-flag warning. Getting drinks with Joshua Hudgens while masquerading as my own non-existent niece was a tactical nightmare. If he figured out the truth, the scandal would destroy my credibility across the entire fashion house.
"Come on," he coaxed softly, stepping closer until I could smell the faint scent of cedarwood and amber on his collar. "Unless your aunt has you on a strict weeknight curfew?"
My Pride—the forty-year-old, independent titan part of it—revolted instantly. "I don't have a curfew."
"Then lead the way," he said, extending an arm toward the dimly lit avenue.
Five minutes later, we were navigating a quiet, cobblestone side street tucked behind the district's high-end boutiques. The ambient hum of Manhattan traffic faded into the background, replaced by the rhythm of our heels clicking against the pavement.
"So," Joshua said, breaking the silence as he glanced down at me. "What drives a woman to nearly pick a fight with a wine shop clerk on a Tuesday night?"
I let out a short, wry snort. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
He laughed, the sound warm and resonant in the cool night air. For a brief, absurd moment, the tight coil of anxiety in my chest loosened. The streetlights overhead cast long shadows, and the simple act of walking beside someone who didn't view me as a corporate target felt strangely… effortless.
Then, as we rounded the brick corner leading toward an unmarked alley door, Joshua slowed his pace, his expression shifting into something quieter, more deliberate.
"You know," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he looked at me, "for someone who's supposed to be Arisa's niece… your body language is identical to hers."
I froze mid-stride, my boots coming to a dead stop on the cold concrete. My breath caught in my throat, every instinct firing a warning flare.
Joshua turned to face me, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his gaze searching my face with sharp, unnerving clarity. "The sharp posture. The refusal to compromise on the vintage. Even the way you hold your jaw when you're irritated. It's almost eerie, Ariana."
The silence between us stretched, heavy and dangerous. My pulse hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Does he know? Did he see through the cover story from the very beginning?
Before my brain could formulate a plausible lie, my pocket vibrated with a long, ominous buzz.
[SCAL SYSTEM WARNING]: Cover Vulnerability Identified. Structural Integrity of 'Ariana' Persona at 42%. Prepare for Truth Disclosure.
I swallowed hard, staring up into Joshua's dark, searching eyes as a slow, knowing smile touched the corner of his lips. The game was changing fast, and for the first time in fifteen years, I had zero control over the outcome.