Gwendolyn Morris directed Marco Griffin to park the scooter near a subway entrance, where there was a designated area for scooters. After parking, I got off and checked my phone to see it was already 11:15 p.m. Compared to the daytime, there were noticeably fewer people around the subway station. A night breeze blew by, and Marco stepped forward to shield me from the wind.

Standing together, we made quite a contrast—one tall, one shorter; one in dark clothes, the other in light. In the stillness of the night, we stood out quite a bit. Marco wasn't wearing a jacket, just a sleek silver shirt that clung to his muscular frame, highlighting the energy beneath the fabric.

I glanced to the side and said, "I'm not cold. You’re not wearing much—maybe you shouldn't stay in the wind." Marco gave a small, knowing smile, perhaps unsure if I was playing coy or genuinely not understanding his gesture. Another woman might have interpreted his actions differently.

He lowered his gaze, studying my face closely under the dim light. With my hair slicked back and no bangs, my full forehead was visible. This hairstyle requires confidence in one’s looks, and thankfully, my oval face and slightly upturned eyes suited it, lending me an air of aloof elegance.

Perhaps it was one of those "contrast" moments people talk about. He chuckled lightly, his tone playful, "Miss Morris, are you worried about me?"

Startled, I looked up. That was bolder than when he’d offered to steady me earlier. Coming from a man to a woman, it was laden with implications.

"No," I clarified. "I have a boyfriend. I wouldn't be concerned about other men." Marco paused, with a flicker of interest in his eyes, as he stepped back to create some distance.

"Sorry," he said sincerely, without any irritation or embarrassment in response to my words, only regret. "I didn't mean anything by it. I just thought Miss Morris was being kind."

I looked at him, pondering whether he was as harmless as he seemed. But with him standing against the light, I couldn’t make out the subtleties of his expression, let alone any amusement in his eyes. I decided to drop the subject, stating flatly, "Mr. Griffin is kind as well."

At that moment, a black SUV slowly pulled up to the curb, hazard lights blinking. Marco's phone buzzed—Chandler Hunter had sent a WhatsApp message: "Waiting by the curb."

Marco pocketed his phone and nodded toward the parked SUV. "Our ride is here."

Boone Williams was driving, with Chandler Hunter in the passenger seat. I had no choice but to share the back seat with Marco. Boone, though not very chatty, acknowledged me with a nod. "Hello, Miss Morris."

I nodded in return, "Hello."

Chandler turned around, grinning. "Hey there, I'm Chandler, Marco's old buddy."

"Hi," I replied, smiling.

Chandler put on a mock pout. "Come on, I introduced myself—at least give me your name!"

"Her name is Gwendolyn Morris," Marco interjected with a hint of protectiveness I hadn't expected.

Chandler studied me again, the dim car light making it hard to see my features. Keeping his curiosity in check, he asked, "Gwendolyn Morris—nice name. Any special meaning?"

Marco glanced at me, waiting for my response.

"None," I replied softly. It wasn’t really my name, so how could I know its significance?

Marco shifted his gaze back to Chandler, gesturing for Boone to start driving.

Catching the warning look from Marco, Chandler sat up straight, an amused smile playing on his lips. He sent Marco a WhatsApp message, "So, you like the chase."

Marco read the message impassively, turning off his phone screen without a word.

The SUV pulled up at the hospital's entrance. As I moved to get out, Marco stopped me. "Wait a second."

My hand hovered over the car door, puzzled. "What is it?"

He smiled. "I've arranged for a wheelchair. It should be here shortly."

I was surprised and a bit flustered. "A wheelchair isn’t necessary."

Marco smiled again, stepping out as an older man—Mr. Johnson—wheeled one over. With a gentlemanly gesture, he presented the chair to me. "Miss Morris, please."

His voice was gentle, almost caressing, as if speaking to someone dear. The sensation of being treated with such care was strange, and I couldn't help but look at Marco with newfound caution.

Noticing my hesitation, Marco asked softly, "What's wrong?"

His sincere gaze almost made me question my doubts. I eased into the wheelchair and asked Mr. Johnson, "How is my boyfriend?"

He reassured me with a smile. "Everything is set. Once you're done here, you can go see him."

"Thank you," I said.

The doctor confirmed my foot injury wasn't serious, prescribing some topical treatments. He joked with Marco, “This kind of injury could take a while to heal. Perfect opportunity to play the caring boyfriend—make sure she doesn't walk too much.”

Marco blushed slightly, but I interrupted, "He's not my boyfriend—he’s the one who hit me."

The night was as dark as if a bottle of ink had been spilled across the entire sky. A black SUV sat under the dim glow of a streetlamp, where Marco Griffin and Chandler Hunter leaned against it, quietly smoking. Wisps of smoke circled Marco as he tilted his head back, recalling Gwendolyn Morris's composed expression when she said, "He's not my boyfriend; it was just a misunderstanding." Her face was calm, showing no sign of extra emotion.

Marco took a drag of his cigarette, his gaze growing more intense, like a poker player assessing his hand, considering whether to up the ante. Chandler nudged him on the shoulder, drawing Marco's attention to a shabby apartment complex nearby. Chandler smirked mischievously, "Off to rescue the damsel in distress, are we?" he teased. Then, with a smirk, he added, "But seriously, I couldn't get a good look at her last night—it was pitch black. Aren't you giving her a lift to work tomorrow? Let me come along. I want to see if she's the kind of beauty who got you to drop your usual disdain for people."

Marco exhaled smoke, glancing at Chandler. "You've got too much free time," he retorted. "And who said I was into her?"

The next morning, Marco's car arrived promptly at the entrance of the old apartment complex. Besides Marco and Boone Williams, Chandler was also in the car. He hadn't caught a clear glimpse of Gwendolyn the night before while waiting outside the hospital. Now, he stood beside the car, eyes glued to the entrance.

About five or six minutes later, Gwendolyn emerged from the complex. Chandler watched her walk, noting that her foot seemed fine after just one night. He wondered if she might be faking her injury to exploit his friend.

He quickly leaned down and tapped on the car window. It rolled down to reveal Marco's sharp features. "What's up?" Marco asked.

Chandler nodded toward Gwendolyn and whispered, "Look, her foot's fine. She's playing you."

Marco swung the car door open and stepped out. His eyes fixed on Gwendolyn, who was still wearing the black coat from the night before. Her walk seemed normal, but a closer look showed she moved carefully, glancing at her foot every few steps. Marco pulled out his phone and made a call, "I need some information on a woman named Gwendolyn Morris…" He ended the call just as Gwendolyn approached. Seeing Marco, she remained unfazed and simply said, "Didn't I tell you I didn't need a lift?"

Marco, ever the gentleman, opened the car door with a smile, "I always finish what I start. Hop in."

Gwendolyn climbed into the car while Chandler stood nearby, lost in thought.

"What are you thinking about?" Marco's voice snapped Chandler back to reality.

He pulled Marco aside and urgently whispered, "It was too dim last night, but she looked familiar. Now I remember—I saw her at the police station, and she’s linked to a homicide case. Marco, what's up with you? Didn't you check her background first?"

Marco studied Chandler as sunlight softly bathed him, giving him an ethereal glow. Marco smiled nonchalantly, a hint of predatory curiosity in his eyes, "Are you saying she’s killed someone?"

Chandler recognized the gleam in Marco's eyes—the thrill of a new challenge. His warning had backfired. With a resigned wave, he said, "I should never have told you this."

A madman, Chandler called him. Marco laughed quietly. If being a madman in a dull world was his destiny, he would embrace it, especially now that he had found someone intriguing.

"Fascinating," he murmured, licking his lips. "Utterly fascinating."

Gwendolyn Morris turned out to be more captivating than he'd imagined. The thought of what might lie beneath her composed exterior thrilled him to his core.

He reopened the car door and joined Gwendolyn in the back seat, resuming his gentlemanly demeanor. "Miss Morris, are you heading straight to work, or would you like to stop by the hospital to see your boyfriend?"

Earlier that morning, Gwendolyn had video-called Joey Davis, who reassured her that his injury was minor and didn't require a hospital stay. However, Marco had arranged for him to have a VIP room and a personal nurse. Joey had been impressed, telling Gwendolyn, "Gwen, people like Mr. Griffin are different—they're thoughtful and not bothered by expenses. I think he's a good guy."

Gwendolyn nodded, "As long as you're okay. I'll bring lunch later."

"No need, you should rest your foot. I made a lot yesterday. Take a few days off and relax. Don’t worry; the nurse is here to help me."

Gwendolyn couldn't afford to take time off. Even though she lived with Joey, she never considered his earnings hers. When Joey initially suggested she manage their finances, she had flatly refused.

Joey had been upset then, sulking all night until Gwendolyn noticed his puffy eyes the next morning. She realized he'd cried quietly, touched yet amused by his reaction. It was such a minor issue, but he had wept like a child.

Joey had embraced her from behind, asking, "Gwen, don't you see me as your partner? If you did, wouldn't you plan our future together?"

Her response was pragmatic: "You forget—if they find me, is my money really mine? Keeping your money with you is the safest option."

The black SUV pulled up at the pharmacy. Gwendolyn turned to Marco, as polite as ever, "Thank you for the ride, Mr. Griffin. I'll head off now."

Marco met her gaze warmly, his reply equally gentle, "No need to thank me. It was my pleasure."

Gwendolyn noticed something different about Marco this morning. His eyes were still kind, and his words courteous as ever, yet there was an underlying intensity she couldn't quite place.

As she climbed out and shut the door, the warmth in Marco's eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating stare. Through the glass, he watched her slender figure, studying her as though she were prey. When Gwendolyn hesitated on the sidewalk, Marco exited the vehicle.

"Miss Morris," he called out, his voice crisp in the fresh morning air. Gwendolyn turned to face him as he approached, maintaining a respectful distance.

"For future reference, may I have your number for WhatsApp?" he suggested.

Gwendolyn provided a series of digits—her phone number. Marco carefully entered it into his phone and searched for her profile, then showed it to her with a smile, "Is this you?"

She nodded, "Yes, that's correct."

He sent a friend request, then grinned, "Don’t forget to accept it."

Gwendolyn agreed, "Alright."

As she started to leave, Marco called out again, "Gwen."

She glanced back, surprised by the informal address. Marco offered a casual smile, "It's a beautiful name. Makes me think of wind and jasmine. Let's use it between us; calling you Miss Morris seems too formal now that we've crossed paths."

Working at the pharmacy wasn't particularly busy, but company policy was strict: no phone use during shifts, even when idle. As the manager put it, it was a matter of professionalism. Not that I had much time for my phone anyway. During the quiet moments between customers, I was busy studying for the licensed pharmacist exam. In our line of work, without that certification, I’d be stuck as a sales associate forever. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I was aiming higher, to earn more, and to move up to a management position. Without that license, those aspirations would remain out of reach.

All morning, whenever there weren't customers, I was buried in my books. So engrossed was I that I forgot about the pending friend request from Marco Griffin on WhatsApp. Meanwhile, Marco sat in his office chair, staring at his phone screen, where the pending friend request from me was a constant reminder.

It wasn't until lunchtime, when I called Joey Davis for a video chat, that I noticed Marco's request. After accepting it, I started my call with Joey. Our pharmacy operated on a two-shift system. There were just two of us clerks, overseen by one manager. But since our store was small—barely making a profit—the manager also had oversight of other locations.

Usually, I alternated shifts with another clerk: from 7 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., and then from 2:30 p.m. to 10 p.m. On morning shifts, I barely had time for lunch, often scarfing down a quick sandwich or a packed meal from home during quieter moments.

Across the screen, Joey was enjoying a hearty lunch, his plate full of meat and vegetables, while I was stuck with my sandwich. We chatted casually as I finished my meal. It wasn't until after I hung up that I noticed the flurry of messages from Marco on WhatsApp.

Marco: "So you finally decided to take me out of the waiting room, huh? Now let's talk about compensation."

Three minutes passed with no reply from me, and Marco sent another message.

Marco: "I'm not used to handling situations like this. What do you think would be fair compensation for last night's incident for you and your boyfriend?"

Another three minutes without a response, and Marco messaged again: "Am I interrupting your break?"

I quickly typed back: "No, I was just having lunch. As for compensation, I'll need to discuss it further with my boyfriend. But he's pretty happy with how you handled things last night, Mr. Griffin, so we won't ask for much."

In his office, Marco scrolled through the messages, each "boyfriend" seeming to provoke a sardonic smile. "Boyfriend? How charmingly you put it. Gwendolyn Morris, you're the one who's been getting under my skin."

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from a drawer, lit one, and took a slow drag. To be fair, Marco wasn't the type to indulge frequently. He wasn't interested in much of anything, really. Even his cigarette habit was sparse—one every few days, maybe. A pack could last him two months.

But ever since I came into his life, he'd been smoking more frequently. Like he needed the nicotine to calm some unfamiliar storm within. Realizing this, he stubbed out the cigarette and sent another message: "I'll wait for your response."

I stared at "I'll wait for your response," my brows knitting slightly. Out of context, there was nothing particularly alarming about those words, yet they left me feeling uneasy. Just then, a customer entered the pharmacy. I quickly turned off my phone screen, slipped it into my pocket, and approached with a welcoming smile. "Hello, can I help you find something today?"

...

After my shift, I headed home, stopping at the small grocery store outside my apartment complex to pick up some celery and fresh meat. I planned to make Joey some homemade pork and celery dumplings and bring them to the hospital. Joey loved dumplings, especially those with pork and celery, though I wasn't much for cooking. Usually, our meals were whatever we could throw together with the least fuss. But today, I wanted to make an exception, considering he'd injured his back.

When I arrived at the hospital, Joey opened the container, the savory aroma of celery and pork filling the air. His grin was wide and toothy. "You don't know how long I've been craving this."

Without bothering with a fork, he grabbed a dumpling with his hand and popped it into his mouth. "So good!"

The orderly, a man in his thirties, chuckled at Joey. "Hey, if you want dumplings, just let me know, and I'll get some for you."

"Mmm," Joey mumbled around a mouthful of dumpling. "But nothing beats my fiancée's cooking. You should try some; it's fantastic."

The orderly raised his hands in polite refusal. "I'm good, just ate. You two enjoy. I’ll step out for a bit."

Joey nodded, gesturing to the untouched dinner on his hospital table. "The orderly just brought that; you should have it while it's hot."

I picked up a cup of water, holding it to Joey's lips. "Drink some water, take it slow."

He sighed contentedly. "If only I had some soup to go with these dumplings, that’d be perfect."

Just as the orderly left the room, Marco appeared at the door, caught off guard by the man's brisk exit. Marco's imposing presence lingered in the air as the orderly nodded, then quickly moved on. Marco, however, remained where he stood, peering through the glass in the door at Joey and me inside the hospital room.

I was wiping a bit of sauce from Joey's lips with a napkin. Whatever Joey had said made me laugh, my hand playfully nudging his shoulder, my usually composed demeanor softened by a certain shyness in my smile.

Marco’s eyes tracked my expression, unreadable emotions swirling in their depths. He murmured to himself, “With an injured leg, can’t even look after yourself, yet here you are, cooking and bringing food from afar for him. Truly a devoted girlfriend.”

He inhaled deeply, suppressing the storm of jealousy brewing within him, exhaling slowly. Though it was a stolen glance, his gaze bore the confidence of possession.

"Sir," Boone said, ending a phone call and turning to Marco. "I've got the results from the investigation you requested on Miss Morris. I've had them sent to your email."

Marco pulled his eyes away from the window, retrieving his phone to check his email. Sure enough, a new message waited, the details about me laid out in the attachments.

My father was a university professor; my mother, a retired high school teacher. I’d been working at the pharmacy as a sales associate for two years now.

The details made Marco frown. My parents were educated professionals, yet I was working at a pharmacy? It didn’t add up to him. With such a background, surely I could do more than just sell medicine.

Something wasn’t right.

As Marco read on, he discovered I donated a third of my monthly salary to an all-girls private school. The school was well-known, the principal publicly acknowledging contributors to maintain transparency and gratitude.

A slow grin spread across Marco’s face as he digested this piece of information. Tenderness and mischievous excitement mingled in his eyes. "Here I thought she was all facade, but she’s quite the altruistic saint. But even saints need a place for their offerings."

He turned off his phone and once more peered through the glass at Joey and me, our heads bent close in laughter over dinner. His voice carried a note of anticipation, "I’m a saint myself. Care to taste the offerings I lay before you?"