Chapter 1: You Can Just Say He’s Boring

The bar was one of those many places in New York City that tried to make people feel important. Everything glowed - gold-rimmed glasses, candlelight flickering through cut crystal, the faint, polished gleam of champagne-colored marble catching light from a hundred subtle sources. Conversation drifted like perfume - low, intimate, and restrained - the sound of people who wanted to be overheard only by the right ears.

Harper Quinn sat in a velvet-backed chair that was a touch too upright for comfort, her legs crossed carefully beneath the table. Her dress - black, daringly backless, neckline swooping lower than she realized until she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall - was the kind of thing Jules had called “aggressively dateable.” She felt like she was wearing someone else’s skin.

“ ... I told them, look, if the net margin doesn’t reflect Q3 performance, you’re just doing vacation math,” said the man across from her. Something between a laugh and a snort puffed from his nose. He hadn’t touched his cocktail. It sat and sweated, his hand instead wrapped possessively around a sleek phone he couldn’t stop glancing at.

Harper smiled like she was listening, gently swirling the olive in her martini glass with the tiny gold pick they’d provided. Her mind had left the table ten minutes ago. The room was too glossy. Too curated. Everyone in here was trying. Except her - and, well - and maybe the woman who had just walked in.

She didn’t notice her at first. It was just a shift in the air. A subtle change in atmosphere, like when someone famous walks into a room - not necessarily because of who they are, but because of how they carry themselves.

That’s when Harper had looked up.

The woman was beyond beautiful, she was ... elemental. If Harper was the blonde, blue-eyed girl next door, she was a super-model. And, she moved like she owned the evening. She stepped through the warm wash of the entrance lighting with the kind of poise that didn’t announce itself. She didn’t need to. She was elegance in motion - sun-kissed skin catching candlelight, hair woven into a thick, dark braid that slid over her shoulder like a statement in itself. She wore layered jewelry in antique gold and turquoise - pieces that looked meaningful, not trendy. And her outfit - goddess-tier executive: something earth-toned and form-fitting with sharp lines and soft embroidery, like power wrapped in velvet.

Her eyes were sharp. Scanning. She took in the room like she was making mental notes on every person inside. Not with judgment - just, with precision.

Harper’s breath caught — just slightly. Her date was saying something about Santorini now. She didn’t respond.

The woman’s name was Mira Laurent, and her gaze swept, calculating, until it landed - unexpectedly - on the blonde in the backless dress, halfway through an olive and an existential crisis.

And their eyes locked.

Not for long. Two seconds, maybe three. But it was the kind of look that made the bar fade. The kind that asks a question neither of them could quite name. Mira didn’t smile. But something in her expression shifted - just a flicker at the corner of her mouth. A private note. She turned back toward the man beside her.

Her date was talking too loudly. Tall, handsome, and entirely unaware that Mira’s mind had left the table the second he said “synergy.” He was charming, in the way some men are when they’ve been told they are - confident, performative, and oblivious to the fact that Mira had already assessed him and filed him under “just get through this drink”.

So, Mira ordered her drink - something clear, no garnish - and nodded politely as her date launched into another monologue. But her eyes drifted, unbidden, back to the woman across the room. The blonde was gorgeous - in a way that seemed almost unintentional. Mira noticed the way her hand rested lightly against her jaw, half-bored. The dress clung beautifully to her, a little too bold for someone trying to shrink into the corner. There was vulnerability there. Intelligence too. And something else - a kind of awkward defiance Mira recognized instantly.

The blonde glanced her way - a motion that told Mira she’d been tracking her. But, too quickly she turned back to her date, who had just said something that made her laugh - not because it was funny, but because it was easier than silence. Mira’s eyes lingered one breath longer. Then she turned back to her own companion and smiled - perfectly, politely - and thought: God. You can just say he’s boring.

It wasn’t long before fate - or layout design - brought them closer. Somewhere between a shared candle and an artfully underlit mirror, Mira and her date drifted within arm’s reach of Harper and hers.

Harper hadn’t noticed they’d moved so close. She was busy suppressing a yawn with her cocktail. The man beside her - what was his name again? Travis? - was mid-story about networking through “intentional proximity,” something involving a yacht, a TED speaker, and a property deal in Bali. Harper’s eyes glazed over, her gaze slipping from the rim of her glass to the reflection in the wall behind the bar.

And that’s when she noticed her. Close now. Really close. Close enough to feel.

She wasn’t speaking. Just standing with an elegance that didn’t fidget. Her eyes scanned her surroundings lazily, sipping in the room like she was reading a page she’d already memorized. Her date, meanwhile, was still talking - a confident crescendo of indulgent brilliance. Harper heard him before she saw him: something about the death of nuance in digital storytelling.

And suddenly, Harper - without meaning to - tipped forward just slightly and blurted, far too loud: “God, is he reading his résumé or just listing things he’s conquered?”

The silence that followed was exquisite. A beat. Then two.

And then - unexpectedly, impossibly - the goddess laughed. Out loud.

It wasn’t a social laugh. Not polite. Not restrained. It was sudden and unguarded, low in her throat and utterly delighted. The kind of laugh that blooms in the chest of someone who rarely gets surprised. Harper’s eyes snapped to her, and for one suspended second, they were caught - tangled in that shared, reckless moment.

The woman’s date stiffened like a man struck. His drink arrived at that exact second, and he reached for it with military precision. He didn’t look at the woman when he said, clipped and razor-clean: “Clearly I’m not required here.” He left without waiting for a reply. And she didn’t offer one.

Instead, she turned her body slightly, letting her posture shift - just enough to signal that she’d accepted the change in scene. That whatever had just sparked across the low-lit bar, she wasn’t stepping away from it.

Harper turned toward the woman - like a sunflower finding the light. Her breath felt shallow in her chest, but she didn’t back away. Didn’t make a joke. Just ... faced her.

They were close now - not touching, but aware of every inch. The fabric of Harper’s dress felt too thin. Mira’s perfume - something floral grounded in musk and vetiver - wove into her lungs and stayed there.

“I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” Harper said quietly.

And then she heard her voice. Deeper than she thought it would be, with a smoky edge and an accent she couldn’t place - “You absolutely did,” she said, the ghost of her earlier laugh still touching her voice.

A pause. Then Harper cracked a grin. “I mean - it seemed accurate.”

“I won’t argue.”

They didn’t speak for a few seconds. They didn’t have to. The din of the bar moved around them like water around a stone - neither woman moved. Just quiet electricity. Curiosity. Something pulling taught and steady between them.