Chapter 1 - THE FOURTH CANDIDATE
Daniel paused, his spoon hovering over the tiramisu as if the question had caught him entirely off guard. The soft background jazz of the Italian bistro in Harvard Square suddenly felt suffocatingly loud.
"Seven years," Daniel admitted softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "We were together seven years."
Emily offered him a quiet, sympathetic smile. Daniel was a genuinely good man—warm, compassionate, and deeply committed to his students. But as she listened to him talk, she realized his heart wasn't in this room. He wasn't looking for a partner; he was looking for a ghost.
"Daniel," Emily said gently, reaching across the table to lay her hand over his. "You're a wonderful guy. Truly. But you're still in love with Samantha. And you deserve the time to heal without trying to force yourself onto a dating app."
Daniel stared at her, blinking rapidly before letting out a long, ragged breath. "Is it that obvious?"
"It's very obvious," Emily smiled faintly. "Go fight for her, or give yourself permission to grieve. But don't settle for dinner dates with strangers when your mind is four miles away."
They parted with a warm hug—no awkward promises, no fake "we should do this again" texts.
Two nights later came Date Number Three.
Julian was thirty-six, a hedge fund partner with immaculate suits, impeccably combed hair, and an endless stream of subtle condescension. Within twenty minutes, he managed to interrupt Emily four times, critique her order of Pinot Noir, and explain investment banking principles to her—despite the fact that Emily was a Senior Financial Strategy Manager at Cole Meridian Group, managing portfolios three times the size of his firm’s total assets.
When Emily calmly corrected his misunderstanding of tax-exempt municipal bonds, Julian’s posture stiffened. The rest of the evening was a masterclass in fragile male ego. Emily paid for her own meal, politely declined his offer to hail her a cab, and walked three blocks to the MBTA station in the pouring rain.
By Friday morning, Emily sat at her desk on the thirty-second floor of the Cole Meridian building, staring blankly at financial forecasts.
Her phone buzzed.
Rachel: Date #4 is locked in. Saturday, 7 PM. Beacon Hill Bistro.
Emily: Rachel, please. I’m exhausted. Three dates in ten days. My spirit is broken.
Rachel: You promised ONE MONTH. That means four dates minimum. Besides, I personally screened this one. His name is Alexander Vance. He’s a landscape architect, thirty-six, doesn't talk about his ex, and his profile picture features him holding a rescued golden retriever.
Emily: Landscape architect? So he’s going to evaluate my potted plants?
Emily: Fine. But if he mentions his ex or explains interest rates to me, I’m ordering the most expensive cognac on the menu and billing it to your credit card.
Saturday evening arrived with a biting chill sweeping across Boston. The Beacon Hill Bistro was cozy, lit by flickering candle lanterns and rich mahogany accents. Emily arrived five minutes early, taking a table near the back window overlooking the cobblestone street.
At precisely 7:00 PM, the restaurant door opened.
A man stepped inside, shaking snow off his charcoal wool coat. He was tall—at least six-foot-two—with broad shoulders, dark unruly hair swept back from his forehead, and striking slate-blue eyes. He wore a simple olive-green turtleneck and tailored dark jeans. He didn't carry the sleek, polished arrogance of Julian or the rigid posture of Marcus. There was an effortless, quiet weight to the way he moved.
He caught the hostess’s eye, spoke softly, and then looked toward Emily’s table.
When his eyes met hers, Emily felt an odd, unexpected jolt in her chest.
"Emily Thomas?" he asked, walking over with a warm, measured smile. His voice was low, carrying a deep, resonant pitch.
"Alexander?" Emily stood up, extending a hand.
He took her hand—his grip firm and warm—and smiled. "Call me Alex. It’s a pleasure to meet you."
He helped her with her coat before sitting down across from her. Unlike her previous dates, Alex didn't immediately launch into a monologue about his accomplishments or his career. He asked about her week, listening with intense, unwavering focus.
"A landscape architect?" Emily asked, taking a sip of her Cabernet. "That sounds like a peaceful line of work."
Alex smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. "It can be. Restoring historical gardens, designing public parks. Working with soil and stone doesn't talk back to you like human clients do."
"I work in corporate financial strategy," Emily laughed. "Trust me, I envy anything that doesn't talk back."
"Cole Meridian Group, right?" Alex asked, leaning back. "That’s a heavy workload. They’re currently restructuring their technology investment division, aren't they?"
Emily paused, her glass halfway to her lips. She stared at him in surprise. Cole Meridian’s upcoming tech division restructuring was strictly confidential internal news. "How do you know that?"
Alex didn't flinch, though a subtle shadow crossed his features before he smoothly smiled. "Boston’s a small city, Emily. Financial gossip moves fast, even among people who plant trees."
For two hours, the conversation flowed effortlessly. Alex was articulate, sharp, and possessed a quiet dry humor that kept Emily smiling. Yet beneath his casual demeanor, Emily’s sharp analytical mind noticed small inconsistencies.
His hands were clean and smooth—not the rough, calloused hands of a man who worked with soil and landscaping equipment every day. His silver wristwatch was completely unbranded, but its movement was dead silent, meticulously crafted in a way that screamed custom Swiss haute horlogerie. And when a waiter accidentally tripped nearby, dropping a tray of glasses, Alex’s reaction was instantaneous—a lightning-fast, defensive pivot that suggested rigorous security training rather than the reflexes of a gardener.
When dinner ended, Alex insisted on walking her back to her Brookline condo. The night air was freezing, but walking alongside him felt strangely warm.
"Thank you for tonight, Alex," Emily said as they reached her front steps. "Honestly... I came into tonight expecting another disaster."
Alex looked down at her, his expression turning surprisingly tender. "I’m glad I exceeded expectations."
He didn't push for an invitation upstairs. He simply took her gloved hand, kissed the back of it with old-fashioned elegance, and waited until she was safely inside her lobby before turning to leave.
Inside her warm apartment, Emily leaned against the front door, her heart racing.
She walked over to her kitchen cabinet, opening it to look at her handwritten list:Married by thirty-five.
For the first time in years, the deadline didn't feel like a heavy weight pressing against her chest.
What Emily didn't know was that across town, in the penthouse suite of the Ritz-Carlton overlooking Boston Common, Alexander Vance was standing in front of floor-to-ceiling windows, taking off his olive sweater.
A sleek black encrypted phone rang on the glass desk behind him.
Alex answered, putting it to his ear. "Talk to me, Marcus."
"The Board of Directors is demanding a meeting, Mr. Vance," a stern voice spoke through the speaker. "Cole Meridian Group’s interim executive board has uncovered significant financial discrepancies in the European subsidiary. They need the Chairman’s signature to launch a full forensic audit."
Alex stared out at the snow falling over Boston.
Alexander Vance was not a landscape architect.
He was Alexander Cole-Vance—the elusive, billionaire majority owner and sole surviving heir of Cole Meridian Group. He had spent the last two years living incognito, investigating internal corruption within his own company after his father’s suspicious death.
"Hold the board meeting until Tuesday," Alex ordered coolly. "And run a full security background check on a Senior Manager in Financial Strategy."
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"Name, sir?"
"Emily Thomas," Alex said softly, his voice softening as he recalled her bright, resilient eyes. "Make sure she’s safe. Because things are about to get very dangerous at Cole Meridian."