Callahan Meyer shuddered, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second.

Maya Cole seized the opportunity, prying his locked fingers away one by one. Her hands were ice-cold, and the contact with his feverish skin made him shiver.

"Don't follow me," she said, her eyes devoid of warmth. "Or I’m calling the police."

Without a backward glance, she walked toward an old sedan parked at the curb.

The driver’s side door opened. A young man in a beige trench coat stepped out, looking at her with concern. "Are you okay? That guy—"

Maya shook her head and slid into the car. "I’m fine. He’s nobody. Let’s go."

The man cast a wary look at Callahan, who stood frozen in the snow, before climbing back in and starting the engine.

The car pulled away, splashing Callahan with a spray of cold, dirty slush.

Callahan remained rooted to the spot, a statue abandoned in the winter landscape. The heavy snowfall blanketed his shoulders and hair, turning him into a ghost of white.

He watched the direction the car had disappeared, staring at the empty intersection. His chest felt hollow, carved out and left as a freezing, gaping void.

She was gone.

Really gone.

She didn't want him anymore.

Callahan didn’t give up.

Like a persistent shadow, he began to track Maya’s life in Montreal.

The private investigator he hired was efficient; he quickly discovered her address—a third-floor unit in a run-down apartment complex. It was narrow, poorly lit, and cheap.

He didn't dare go up. He was terrified she’d actually call the police, and even more terrified of the disgust he knew he’d see in her eyes.

Instead, he stood across the street on a corner, finding an inconspicuous spot to watch from a distance.

He saw her leave at seven every morning, bundled in a heavy parka, heading for the subway. Her complexion remained pale, but her stride was steady.

He watched her return after classes, stopping at the local corner store to pick up the cheapest loaf of bread and a carton of milk.

When a stray cat approached, she would squat down, breaking off a small piece of bread to place on the ground. As she watched the cat eat, a faint, fleeting smile would touch her lips.

Callahan watched her greedily, his heart aching so sharply he had to clench his jaw to keep from gasping.

He also noticed the man who often dropped her off.

Sometimes they arrived in that old sedan; sometimes they walked.

When they stood beneath the building talking, the man would lean in, listening with focused attention, nodding and smiling with eyes full of tenderness. Callahan recognized that look. It was the way a man looked at the woman he loved.

Jealousy twisted in his gut like a knife.

He eventually learned the man’s name was Ishaan Montgomery, a French tutor who had arrived in Montreal a few years before her and often looked out for her.

She also worked at a café.

Callahan found the place—a small shop with simple decor and few customers.

He went every afternoon, ordered the most expensive coffee on the menu, and sat in the furthest corner for hours.

She wore a server’s apron, moving efficiently as she wiped tables, took orders, and served coffee.

When customers tried to chat her up or harass her, she always managed to deflect them with calm detachment, maintaining a standard, professional smile.

Then came the day a drunk man grabbed her wrist and refused to let go, spewing crude insults. When the manager heard the commotion, he didn't intervene. Instead, he hissed at her for "making a scene."

Callahan snapped.

He strode over, grabbed the drunkard’s wrist, and twisted it until the man cried out in pain. Callahan shoved him aside and turned an icy glare toward the manager. "I’m buying this place. Get out. Now."

Intimidated by his presence and the sharp cut of his suit, the manager paled and retreated without a word.

Maya, however, didn't even look at him. She simply turned and walked into the kitchen.

Callahan followed her, blocking her path in the narrow corridor. He raked a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. "Maya, don't work here anymore. It's too much, and people like that—"

"Callahan Meyer," Maya interrupted, her voice cool and detached. "Stop interfering in my life."

"I'm not interfering, I just don't want you to be mistreated!" Callahan said, his voice straining with urgency.

Maya looked up at him, her eyes hollow. "Aren't you the one who caused all of this? What’s the point of playing the hero now?"

Callahan was pinned to the spot, his face deathly pale as he gripped the edge of a stainless-steel prep table.

"And another thing," she added, her tone laced with mockery. "Save it. Buying the café? What's next? Buying the tutoring center? Buying my apartment? Callahan, your money and your power are worthless to me."

With that, she brushed past him and went back to work.