Chapter 2
The afternoon sun slanted through my sheer curtains, casting dappled shadows across that velvet blanket.
Last night had been insane. A midnight call from a stranger, that impossible connection—if it weren't for that phone call, I'd think I was losing my mind.
I grabbed my phone, scrolling to last night's number. Raphael Ashford. The name rolled around my tongue, foreign yet somehow familiar. 'Just once,' I told myself. 'If nothing happens, then last night was just a coincidence.'
Three rings, then he picked up.
"Raphael Ashford." His voice sounded sharper in daylight.
"Hi, this is Isadora from last night." I tried to keep my voice steady. "I think... we might need to talk more about that weird phenomenon."
"Ah, Isadora." His tone softened slightly. "Honestly, I've been thinking about it all day. Have you discovered anything new?"
I took a deep breath, reaching toward the blanket's edge. "Maybe. How are you feeling right now?"
"Normal. I'm at the office, just finished a meeting—"
My fingertips brushed the blanket's surface. Raphael's voice suddenly cut off.
"Wait," he said, voice trembling. "There it is again. That... warm feeling. Like someone's gently stroking my back."
I jerked my hand away. "And now?"
"Gone." He sounded even more confused. "What the hell is this? Should I see a doctor?"
'Holy shit, this actually works.' My heart was about to burst from my chest.
"Maybe we should meet and discuss this," I said tentatively. "You know, compare these... experiences."
"Good idea." He agreed immediately. "I'm free tonight at seven. How about Sterling Café? It's on Fifth Avenue."
Sterling Café. Fifth Avenue. I swallowed hard. That was a place I could never afford in my lifetime.
"Sounds perfect," I lied.
"Great. By the way, I forgot to ask your full name and what you do."
"Isadora Miller. I'm an art student."
"Art? Interesting. I work at Ashford Investment Bank." He paused. "Seems like we come from very different worlds."
'Fucking right we do.' I thought, but only said, "Yes, very different."
After hanging up, I clutched the blanket tighter, feeling something strange wash over me. Then suddenly, a voice echoed in my head—not my voice.
'This feels just like when grandma used to hold me as a kid.'
I dropped the blanket like it was on fire, gasping. That was Raphael's voice, but he hadn't said that during our call. I could hear his... thoughts?
'Jesus Christ, this is getting crazier by the minute.'
At five minutes to seven, I stood outside Sterling Café, watching the expensive-suited business types through the windows, feeling like an ugly duckling who'd wandered into a swan convention.
I'd spent a full hour picking out clothes—my best black dress, the only decent heels I owned. But now it all seemed pathetically inadequate.
The maître d' looked me over, hesitation flickering in his eyes. "Do you have a reservation, miss?"
"I'm... I'm here to meet Mr. Raphael Ashford."
His expression instantly changed, becoming respectful. "Ah, Mr. Ashford. Of course, please follow me."
Then I saw him.
Raphael Ashford sat in a corner booth, dark brown hair perfectly styled, wearing a navy tailored suit. When he looked up at me, those blue-gray eyes made my breath catch. He was more handsome than his voice had suggested, but also more... untouchable.
His watch gleamed under the lights—I'd bet it cost more than my entire year's tuition.
"Isadora?" He stood, extending his hand.
"Yes." I shook it, trying not to let my hand tremble. His was warm and dry, the grip perfectly calibrated—clearly honed by years of business dealings.
"Pleasure to meet you. Please, sit." He pulled out my chair with movie-star elegance.
As I settled in, I studied him covertly. Raphael Ashford looked like he'd stepped off a magazine cover—perfect to the point of unreality.
But there was something in his eyes, a deep weariness that made him seem... human.
"Nice place," I said, trying to sound comfortable.
"I come here for meetings often. Quiet, private." He nodded, then met my eyes directly. "Now, let's talk about those strange sensations."
Just then, a thought drifted into my head: 'She seems more spirited than I expected, but why does she look so nervous?'
'Strange,' I thought, 'I'm not touching the blanket. Is our connection getting stronger?'
"You said last night you felt someone embracing you," I forced myself to focus. "Can you describe it in more detail?"
Raphael frowned, fingers tapping the table. "Very strange. It felt like... like someone was actually there. Warm, comforting, full of care. I haven't felt that kind of affection in a long time."
He had no idea I was the source of the "phenomenon." He thought we were just two strangers who'd experienced similar weird events.
"Maybe," I said carefully, "this feeling means something special to you?"
His expression grew complex, vulnerability flickering in his eyes. "My grandmother... she used to hold me while I slept, when I was little." He shook his head. "But that's ridiculous. That was all so long ago."
"Your grandmother... is she still alive?" I asked softly.
"No, she passed away a few years ago." His gaze grew distant. "She was the only person in my life who truly cared about me. My parents... they have their own world, their own priorities."
A waiter came to take our orders.
"Tell me about yourself," Raphael said, leaning forward slightly. "Art school must be interesting."
"Photography major," I said. "Still learning. You know, student life, part-time jobs, trying to balance everything."
His thought drifted over: 'She's modest. Most people start bragging the moment they meet me.'
"Sounds fulfilling," he said. "I envy your creativity. Banking... sometimes feels very hollow."
We continued chatting. He spoke about work with professional confidence, but inside he was full of doubts about this lifestyle. When he asked about art, I could sense his genuine interest.
What truly unsettled me was realizing that in his eyes, I was just someone he could confide in about this shared mystery—he had no clue I was the one causing it all.
An hour later, Raphael checked his watch. "Sorry, but I need to go. Important meeting tomorrow morning."
We both stood, and I realized the evening was ending with the truth still unspoken.
"It was great meeting you, Isadora," he said, taking my hand again. "I hope we can meet again to continue discussing this... phenomenon."
But his thoughts said: 'I hope I get to see her again.'
I watched him leave, a complex mix of emotions churning inside me. Guilt, because I was deceiving him. Excitement, because this connection existed. And fear, because I realized how vast the gap between us truly was.
He was Raphael Ashford, heir to an investment banking dynasty, living in a Manhattan penthouse. I was Isadora Miller, an art student barely scraping together tuition, living in a tiny Brooklyn apartment.
Walking out of the café, I hugged myself tight, thinking about that velvet blanket lying on my bed.
But what did this connection really mean? Should I tell him the truth?
