The pale foam of my oat milk latte swirled in lazy, hypnotic spirals, mimicking the quiet tempest brewing inside my own head. Around me, the airy morning atmosphere of the French bakery hummed with the rich scent of dark-roasted Arabica and warm, buttery brioche. Sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling glass, casting golden streaks across marble tabletops while soft, ambient jazz played in the background.
From the outside, it looked like the quintessential city state morning.
On the inside, my internal executive dashboard was flashing every code-red warning light in existence.
I was spiraling, and I possessed enough self-awareness to admit it. Managing a high-growth luxury fashion brand had never been easy, but running a love life had always been my personal operational disaster—and that was before a magical algorithm de-aged my cellular profile down to twenty-four while locking me out of my own executive suite.
On my phone screen, Mavrik's holographic avatar lounged inside an encrypted window, looking insufferably smug for a piece of code. He was dressed in an impeccably rendered suit that looked fresh off a Milanese runway.
"You've got that exact expression again," Mavrik said, adjusting his virtual tie. "The one that screams: I require thirty units of therapy, but I'm settling for an overpriced espresso."
I sighed, shoving my oversized designer sunglasses up into my dark hair. "You are exceptionally fortunate that your primary infrastructure exists on an external cloud server, or I would physically terminate your process."
Mavrik tapped an invisible glass tablet floating before him, completely unbothered. "Let's review the quarterly metrics, shall we? Specifically, your romantic portfolio."
I closed my eyes, suppressing a groan. "Is this audit mandatory?"
"Crucial for romance survival. Your romantic strategy—or lack thereof—is a multi-car collision on the West Side Highway. And I deliver that diagnosis with absolute professional devotion."
With a smooth flick of his wrist, a translucent holographic bar chart hovered inches above my phone screen, glowing in aggressive shades of red.
"Let's run the historical data," he continued briskly. "According to my archive, you have ghosted ten prospective partners over the past five fiscal years."
"Ten?" I choked, my hand jarring the table so hard my porcelain saucer clattered. "That is a gross miscalculation. Ten is statistically improbable."
"Statistically, it's an achievement in extreme risk aversion," Mavrik replied, offering a mocking little round of applause. "The average urban professional tapers off after three. So congratulations, Arisa. Even in emotional sabotage, you're an overachiever."
I leaned back against the leather banquette, my jaw tight. "What is my performance bonus for this milestone? A bottle of vintage Chianti? A swift kick to the ribcage?"
"Honestly? The kick might recalibrate your threat perception before you scare off another viable match." Mavrik tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Here is the core systemic failure, Arisa. You approach romantic architecture the exact same way you manage Vance Design Group: aggressively, ruthlessly, and with a non-negotiable five-year forecast. Admirable in board negotiations. Utterly terrifying across a dinner table."
I narrowed my eyes at the glowing interface. "I maintain operational standards."
"Standards are healthy," Mavrik countered, summoning a secondary diagnostic window. "Unrealistic risk parameters are fatal. Let's examine the audit trail."
He gestured to three highlighted nodes on the timeline, glowing like hazard warnings:
2016: Terminated relationship with a senior partner after drafting hypothetical prenup clauses on date three.
2018: Rejected a four-year partner for proposing unannounced, citing an unauthorized disruption to your Q4 expansion timetable.
2021: Blacklisted three tech founders in twenty-eight days for opening text messages with 'wyd' instead of structured syntax.
"You do not compromise. You demand immediate, frictionless perfection," Mavrik said smoothly. "And the moment a prospect demonstrates human vulnerability, you liquidate the asset."
I pressed two fingers against the bridge of my nose, feeling a dull ache behind my eyes. "I don't expect perfection. I expect basic executive competence."
"Competence is fine. But you're allergic to emotional exposure," Mavrik countered, dropping his playful tone for something sharper. "If you want a real connection, you have to abandon the corporate playbook. Dating isn't a recruitment interview. You cannot optimize your way into intimacy."
His words struck a direct hit against my defensive armor, leaving a dull, hollow thrum in my chest.
"So what is your strategic recommendation?" I asked dryly. "Swipe blindly on mobile apps and pray for a miraculous personality match?"
"Stop attempting to control the external narrative," Mavrik instructed, leaning forward against his virtual podium. "Be curious rather than defensive. Allow the process to unfold without issuing an immediate performance review."
"Easy for software to say," I muttered. "You aren't the one navigating excruciating small talk and unsolicited life stories."
"No, but I am the administrator logging your heart rate spikes," Mavrik noted with a dry grin. "And right now, your metrics require an immediate update."
Before I could fire back a biting response, my phone vibrated with a sharp, high-priority haptic pulse. The holographic display dissolved instantly as a bold directive covered the screen:
[SCAL ALERT]: High-Value Target in Proximity. Tactical Opportunity Active. Approach with Low Guardrails.
My chest tightened. I scanned the sunlit bakery, my eyes darting past the marble display counters and the vintage pastry racks. What was SCAL's idea of an active opportunity? An ex-fiancé? An aggressive venture capitalist? Or worse—
My breath hitched in my throat.
Sitting three tables away near the window, dressed in a faded denim jacket over a dark tee, was Joshua Hudgens.
He was leaning back against the wooden bench, casually scrolling through his phone, a light stubble accentuating the razor-sharp line of his jaw.
My heart executed a violent thud against my ribs. What were the statistical odds? None. This wasn't chance; this was SCAL's intrusive algorithm funneling us into the exact same coordinates.
"Well, look at that," Mavrik's voice whispered through my earpiece, thick with quiet amusement. "Target acquired. Your love life is demanding an immediate overhaul, starting right now."
I glared directly at the front camera of my phone. "This is a terrible tactical risk."
"It's a cup of coffee, executive," Mavrik replied, his voice dropping into a challenge. "Walk over. Initiate conversation. Execute a basic human smile. Surely someone with a master's in business administration can manage a two-minute social exchange?"
My fingers tightened around my leather clutch as I evaluated the exit routes. I could slide out the side door, order my driver to take me uptown, and pretend this proximity match never happened. I could stay safe inside my fortress of cynical isolation.
Or I could step into the field. I could test Mavrik's theory and see what happened when Arisa Vance stopped running from her own life.
I took a long, steadying breath, smooth and controlled, then stood up from the booth. My forgotten latte sat cooling on the marble table, the foam dissolving into nothingness.
"Go on," Mavrik murmured softly in my ear. "The worst-case scenario isn't a bad conversation. It's staying hidden in the shadows."
I squared my shoulders, smoothed the front of my cream blazer, and took the first step toward his table.