Chapter 3

Alistair calmly took off his coat.

“She won't be fired for this.”

Magnus remained motionless.

“Mister…”

“I said no.”

The place fell silent again.

Arabella should have felt grateful. Instead, she felt something uncomfortable, sharp. She didn't want to be saved. Not like this. Not in front of everyone.

“There's no need to intervene,” he murmured.

Alistair looked at her with an intensity that made him forget the rest of the place.

“I can't stand injustice when I see it in front of me.”

“I can't stand it when they decide for me either.”

The answer surprised him. Again, he almost smiled.

Magnus, red with suppressed rage, muttered:

“Sinclair, go to the kitchen.”

Arabella didn't move.

She took off her apron, left it on a table, and lifted her chin.

“No. I quit.”

Being poor didn't mean letting just anyone walk all over her.

She left the cafe in the rain, her hands trembling and her eyes filled with tears that she refused to let go of.

A few steps later, a voice reached her.

“Arabella.”

She stopped.

Alistair Montrose was coming behind.

And that time she wasn't wearing a coat to protect her from the stare he fixed on her.

She had lost her job. But she had just gained the undivided attention of a dangerous man.

“He shouldn't have followed me,” Arabella said.

Alistair stopped a meter away from her, in the rain. He didn't seem uncomfortable. Of course not. Men like him weren't bothered by the weather; the weather adapted to them.

“You went out without an umbrella.”

“I've survived worse than a Scottish drizzle.”

“I don't doubt it.”

That made her shut up.

Alistair's demeanor barely changed. Less businessman. More man.

“What happened there was unfair.”

“What happened there was shameful. And now it will be a fantastic anecdote: the poor student who threw coffee at the most important man in Edinburgh.”

“I am not the most important man in Edinburgh.”

“How humble. He's probably in second place.”

This time he did smile. Briefly, but genuinely.

Arabella hated noticing it.

“I can make up for the missed shift,” he said.

Her smile disappeared.

“No.”

“I haven't finished.”

“It doesn't matter. The answer is no.”

Alistair studied her patiently.

“She's afraid she needs help.”

“I'm afraid that the help will come with an invisible leash.”

The sentence came out too honest. The rain filled the silence between them.

He nodded slowly, as if that answer pleased him more than any thanks.

“Then it won't be help. It will be an opportunity.”

“What kind?”

“Caledonia Press is looking for temporary manuscript reading assistants. You study literature, have good judgment, and know how to defend an idea. I can recommend you.”

Arabella felt her heart hit against her ribs.

Caledonia Press. A real publishing house. Not a café where Magnus measured his worth by how quickly he served cappuccinos.

“Why would I do that?”

Alistair lowered his voice.

“Because when she talks about books, she stops looking scared.”

Arabella didn't know what to answer.

“I will not accept a job that is given to me.”

“Nobody will give you anything for free. The interview will be real. If you're not good enough, you won't get in.”

That I could accept. Maybe.

“I'll think about it.”

“Do it quickly.”

“Does he always give orders?”

“Only when I know I'm right.”

Arabella let out a brief, involuntary laugh, and instantly regretted it. He looked at her as if that sound was something he wanted to keep to himself.

A black car pulled up to the curb. The driver got out and opened the back door.

“I'll take her home,” Alistair said.

“No.”

“It's soaked.”

“And I still know how to walk.”

“She's stubborn.”

“And you're persistent.”

“A lot.”

The word fell between them with a strange weight.

Arabella took a step back.

“Good evening, Mr. Montrose.”

“Alistair.”

“No.”

“Still.”

She should have kept walking. She really should have.

But he stayed for one more second. Just one.

When she arrived home, Seraphina greeted her with a blanket, a murderous glare, and a barrage of questions. Arabella revealed the bare minimum: the coffee, the resignation, the offer from Caledonia Press.

Seraphina put her hands to her mouth.

“That man is opening a door for you.”

“That man is a door. And he probably has an alarm, a password, and hunting dogs.”

“But there's a publishing house behind it.”

Arabella looked at her thesis on the table. She looked at the bills. She looked at her mother's message.

Sometimes pride was a suit of armor.

Sometimes it was also a cage.

That night, before going to sleep, he received an email.

Sender: Alistair Montrose's Office.

Subject: Caledonia Press. Interview confirmed.

Arabella sat up in bed.

He hadn't answered yet.

And Alistair Montrose had already made the first move.

Arabella arrived at the interview twenty minutes early with only one certainty: if Alistair Montrose had manipulated the situation to make her look like a grateful doll, she would leave.

Caledonia Press occupied an old building near Princes Street, with tall windows and the smell of paper, ink, and real coffee. Not the kind of coffee you get at work. An office coffee shop where people talked about manuscripts as if they were living creatures.

She was interviewed by Rupert Fairchild, editorial director, a man with gray hair and a quick gaze.

“Montrose mentioned that he has character.”

Arabella tensed up.

“I hope he also mentioned that I can read.”

Rupert burst out laughing.

“That's what I hope to find out.”

The interview lasted forty minutes. They talked about young readers, commercial fiction, pacing, characters, endings that sold, and endings that only pleased the author's ego. Arabella forgot her nerves. When she argued why a good first chapter should promise conflict and not just explain context, Rupert stopped taking notes and really listened.

As I left, I didn't know if I had gotten the job.

But he did know one important thing: he had tried on his own merit.

The wait made her unbearable.

He spent the following days between notes, exams, and calls from Seraphina, who had turned his non-existent love life into a research project.

“Has Alistair written to you?”

“No.”

“Bad sign.”

“Good sign. It means he respects boundaries.”

“Or that knows how to make you wait.”

Arabella refused to admit that this worried her even more.

Two days later, a message from Caledonia Press arrived on his mobile phone.

Miss Sinclair: We are pleased to offer you a temporary position as a reader's assistant.

Arabella read the sentence five times.

Then he shouted.

Seraphina appeared at her bedroom door with a brush in her hand as a weapon.

“Who died?”

“Nobody. I was hired.”

Seraphina's scream was worse than his.

That night they celebrated with cheap food, tea, and the bottle of wine Seraphina kept “for a positive emotional emergency.” Arabella should feel unreservedly happy.

But Alistair did not write.

He didn't even call.

He didn't even show up.

And that irritated her because, according to her, she didn't care.

On Friday, as she left her last exam, she found an envelope on her desk. Thick paper. Black seal. Her name handwritten.

Arabella Sinclair.

He opened it carefully.

Inside was an invitation to the graduation ceremony and a smaller card.

I'm glad Caledonia Press recognized it.

By morning, nothing would feel safe again.