Chapter 4
400words
Monday afternoon found Emma in the library's quietest corner, surrounded by texts on 17th century Flemish painting.
A steaming latte appeared beside her hand, topped with a cinnamon-powder smiley face.
Emma looked up into Alex's smiling eyes.
Today he wore a soft gray cashmere sweater that transformed the sharp businessman into someone approachable.
"How did you find me?"
"Your class schedule. I asked your advisor."
His straightforward answer caught her off guard, trapping her prepared objections in her throat.
Instead of sitting, he leaned against the bookshelf, casually flipping through a Rembrandt monograph.
"His mastery of light and shadow was unparalleled."
Alex's deep voice carried an unexpected appreciation.
Emma blinked in surprise.
She'd assumed his expertise ended at spreadsheets and profit margins.
"You know art history too?"
"I don't."
Alex closed the book and fixed his gaze on her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.
"But I understand you."
His words brushed against her heart like a feather, stirring unfamiliar feelings.
The pattern continued for a week.
Alex gradually infiltrated every corner of Emma's life.
He'd appear with rare reference books her advisor had mentioned in passing.
When she worked late on her thesis, he'd text midnight cityscape photos with simple messages: "Rest early."
He'd engage her in discussions about Baroque art's relationship to market value, offering insights that bridged their separate worlds.
Emma's defenses slowly crumbled under this gentle siege—like a frog in slowly heating water, unaware of the changing temperature until it was too late.
She caught herself anticipating his text notifications, growing accustomed to his unexpected appearances in her world.
Alex found himself losing his carefully maintained control.
He sat in his office overlooking the glittering cityscape, hundred-million-dollar contracts neglected before him.
Instead, his fingers tapped his tablet, hunting for an obscure Caravaggio paper Emma had mentioned in passing.
His own behavior bewildered him.
In the past, helping women had been like following a script.
Provide money, solve problems, bask in their worship and dependence.
It was condescending charity masquerading as love.
But with Emma, he craved her challenges, loved watching her argue academic points until color flooded her cheeks.
Her fierce vitality captivated him more than submission ever could.
Helping Emma brought him genuine joy—not the hollow satisfaction of past "rescues."
This realization brought unfamiliar irritation and something else entirely new—fear.
