Julian Cross had closed five deals that morning — the kind that made headlines — but by noon, he was hiding in Central Park under a leaking umbrella, eating a pretzel like a runaway teenager.
He didn't know why. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the gnawing emptiness that billions couldn't fill. Or maybe he was just tired of being Julian Cross, CEO, billionaire, brand.
He tore a bite from the pretzel and chewed thoughtfully, wondering if it was too late to disappear and start a goat farm somewhere in Montana.
That's when something heavy slammed into him.
"Are you kidding me?" a voice snapped.
Julian blinked up. A woman — drenched, furious, clutching a mangled coffee cup — glared down at him like he'd personally caused the rainstorm.
"You're blocking the path!" she huffed, yanking her bag out of his lap.
"I was sitting," Julian said calmly, holding up his pretzel like a peace offering. "Defenseless. Innocent."
She scowled harder. "Whatever. Some of us have real problems."
"And some of us," he said, smirking, "have dry socks."
The woman — petite, messy-haired, looking like a storm herself — stared at him for a beat, then turned sharply and stomped away.
Julian watched her go, amused. Most people, upon meeting him, either fawned or froze.
She'd been… real.
It was oddly refreshing.
He sat there for a long moment, then stood, tossing the last of the pretzel into the trash. Without overthinking it, he shoved his hands in his pockets and followed her down the path.
He had no idea why.
But Julian Cross had built an empire on instinct.
And right now, his instincts were screaming: Don't let her walk away.