Ethan – Thursday, 10:03 a.m. – Grant Enterprises HQ
Ethan stared blankly at the screen. The quarterly product roadmap glared back at him like a cruel joke. He had three meetings lined up before noon, an investor call at two, and a strategy offsite to prepare for by the end of the day. But all he could think about was her.
The girl behind the screen.
The one who teased him about his calendar habits and made apocalypse jokes sound sexy.
His phone buzzed.
WittyOne88: "If you could eliminate one modern invention, what would it be?"
He didn't hesitate.
Ethan: "Alarm clocks. I want to wake up when you do."
There was a long pause.
Then:
WittyOne88: "…Okay, smooth."
He smiled. There it was again—that glow. The quiet kind, the one that reached under your ribs and rearranged your organs. He didn't care that it was irrational. He didn't care that she had a fiancé. All he cared about was the next message. And the one after that.
"Mr. Grant?" Julia's voice cut into his moment.
He looked up. She was holding a stack of reports.
"The finance team's ready for the walkthrough. And Charlie's waiting downstairs."
Right. Charlie.
"I'll be down in five."
He grabbed his coat and phone, ignoring the spreadsheet open on his laptop. Work was slipping through his fingers like sand, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when he was this close. Not when he had leads.
Charlie had spent the last two days combing through Emily's TikTok uploads, pausing, analyzing, taking screenshots like a man possessed. They'd found background cafés, park benches, graffiti tags—fragments of her life. Nothing with a location tag, of course. She was too smart for that. But people slipped. Patterns formed.
"She mentioned a place that does rosewater lattes," Charlie said when Ethan climbed into the car. "That narrows us down to about six independent cafés in East London."
Ethan raised a brow. "That's... concerningly specific."
Charlie grinned. "You forget who you're talking to."
The hunt had begun.
*****
Emily – Thursday, 11:02 a.m. – Columbia Road Flower Market
She didn't know why she'd come here. She didn't need flowers. But something about walking past all the bursts of color and overenthusiastic stall owners yelling "three bunches for a tenner!" grounded her. Made her feel like herself.
Plus, it gave her something to film. She kept the camera low—just shots of the petals and petals, the thick Cockney accents, the plastic bags rustling. Her voiceover would come later. Something dry and ridiculous. "POV: You buy overpriced peonies to avoid your feelings."
Her phone buzzed.
Ethan: "What do you think your Roman Empire is?"
She laughed quietly, turning her head as if someone might catch her grinning like that in public.
Emily: "Probably why tampon commercials always feature women running on the beach. Yours?"
Ethan: "You."
She bit her lip.
She should've stopped texting him days ago. Should've shut it down the moment it started to feel dangerous. But it was too late. He was in her head now—permanently renting space.
She didn't even know his last name. And yet, she thought about him in the morning when she brewed her tea, at night when James leaned over to kiss her goodnight. She thought about what it would feel like to hear Ethan laugh for real. Not via text. Not behind a screen. Real and close.
She tucked her phone in her pocket, heart pounding.
*****
Ethan – Thursday, 1:17 p.m. – The Grin House Café, Shoreditch
They'd narrowed it down to three cafés.
Ethan stepped into the third one, heart weirdly tight, scanning the tables.
A barista glanced up from the espresso machine. "Hey, man—grab a table, I'll come over in a sec."
He nodded, sitting near the back. The place smelled like coffee, patchouli, and banana bread. He tried not to feel ridiculous.
Charlie was scrolling through TikTok on his phone.
"Okay, check this out," he whispered, holding it up. "Posted yesterday. That plant behind her? Pretty sure it's that plant."
He pointed. A huge monstera with a torn leaf, sitting in the corner.
Ethan's pulse jumped.
He turned in his seat slowly.
She'd been here. Maybe yesterday. Maybe this morning. Maybe minutes ago.
And yet, she wasn't here now.
He closed his eyes.
So close. It was like chasing a ghost. A ghost with excellent lighting and savage punchlines.
He stood, leaving a tip he didn't need to leave, and followed Charlie out into the chilly street.
"She's leading you on, you know," Charlie said. "Not maliciously. But this isn't going to end clean."
"I'm not asking for clean," Ethan muttered.
Charlie gave him a long look. "You're falling in love with an idea."
"I'm falling in love with her," Ethan said simply. "I just need to meet her."
*****
Emily – Thursday, 5:42 p.m. – Her flat
James was watching TV, flipping channels like he wasn't even looking.
She was curled up on the other end of the sofa, phone hidden beneath a cushion.
Her fingers ached to text Ethan again. Tell him about the man at the market who tried to sell her basil by claiming it had "romantic properties." Ethan would've made a joke about it. He always did.
Instead, she watched James from the corner of her eye. His jaw was tight. His posture straight.
He knew.
"Hey," he said finally. "Are we... okay?"
She blinked. "What?"
"You're quiet lately. Distant."
She hated how guilty that made her feel.
"I've just been tired," she said. "Work stuff."
He nodded slowly. "It's not about the engagement, is it?"
"No."
Yes.
Maybe.
She stood abruptly. "I'm going to bed."
He didn't follow.
*****
Ethan – Friday, 8:01 a.m. – His penthouse
He hadn't slept.
Not really.
He'd scrolled through her videos like they were clues in some wild treasure hunt. He knew her timing now—when she posted, when she didn't. The rhythm of her digital life.
And something had changed.
She was holding back.
The jokes weren't as sharp. The filters more frequent. Her voiceover yesterday had been slower, softer. Was she second-guessing everything too?
He picked up his phone.
Ethan: "Tell me something true."
No response.
He stared at the message. This was getting out of hand. His inbox was full of ignored work emails. His staff was getting nervous. His board was probably wondering if he was having a breakdown.
But he didn't care.
Because all he wanted—needed—was her.
He'd never been like this. Not with anyone. Not with his exes, not even with the one who almost got away. But this woman—this ghost with a camera and a voice like sunlight through blinds—she had him. Completely.
His phone vibrated.
WittyOne88: "Sometimes I think I made a wrong turn years ago and never figured out how to say it out loud."
He read it twice.
His throat tightened.
Ethan: "Maybe you were just waiting for the right person to hear it."
There was no reply. Not for a while.
And then:
WittyOne88: "Maybe."
Emily – Friday, 1:34 p.m. – Hackney
She was walking to a meeting when she spotted him.
She stopped.
No. It couldn't be.
He was standing across the street, looking confused, talking to someone on his phone. He was taller than she imagined. And—God help her—hotter. Like dangerously so. Crisp coat, dark hair slightly messy, hands shoved into his pockets like he wasn't used to not knowing where to go.
Her heart dropped into her stomach.
She ducked behind a delivery van, pulse in her ears.
Was that him?
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. What were the chances? Had he found her?
She peeked again.
He was gone.
Her phone buzzed.
Ethan: "Are you near Hackney by any chance?"
Her chest seized.
Emily: "Why?"
Ethan: "I just thought I saw someone who reminded me of you."
She stared at the screen.
Slowly, she typed:
Emily: "Maybe you did."