Chapter 4

Eight in the morning, and I was curled up in that damn velvet blanket, scrolling through Instagram while savoring this... sense of control.

Yeah, I'll admit it—I was getting addicted.

My fingers traced the silky fabric, and I could practically picture it: somewhere in a Manhattan high-rise, Raphael suddenly stopping mid-presentation, his eyes going distant.

Sure enough, his thoughts came through crystal clear: 'There it is again, that warm feeling, makes me think of her.'

I grinned. Her? Was he thinking about me?

Mischievously, I tightened my grip on the blanket, hugging it like something precious.

'God, I can barely concentrate.' His mental voice carried a hint of panic. 'The board's waiting for my report, but all I want is...'

My phone rang, cutting off his thoughts. His name lit up the screen.

"I'm feeling particularly strange today. Want to meet and talk about it?" His voice sounded exhausted. "Same coffee shop?"

I pretended to hesitate for a few seconds. "Alright, three o'clock?"

"Perfect."

After hanging up, I stared at the blanket, unease creeping in. Was I taking this too far? But then that intoxicating rush of control surged back. At least with this, I could make an investment banker lose his composure for me.

It felt... fucking amazing.

---

Three PM, and I arrived ten minutes early at that Manhattan midtown coffee shop.

I chose a corner spot, discreetly hiding the blanket in my bag. Today I was going to really "treat" Raphael.

Just as I was about to pull out the blanket, the café door swung open. Raphael walked in, but behind him followed a blonde I'd never seen before.

"Baby, finally found you!"

Baby?

I nearly dropped my coffee cup.

The woman walked straight toward Raphael, completely ignoring my existence. She was about 5'7", with perfect golden waves, wearing what was obviously an expensive Chanel suit. Every inch of her screamed "I cost money."

"Scarlett, how did you find me here?" Raphael's voice carried obvious tension.

Scarlett? I mentally searched for that name.

"Oh please, you think I don't know your schedule?" She sat down gracefully, oblivious to the stares around us. "I'm Scarlett Winthrop, fashion blogger, five hundred thousand Instagram followers." She glanced at me with a hint of superiority. "You must have heard of me."

Of course I hadn't, but I nodded anyway.

"Raph, mother says you've been acting strange lately. Too much work stress?" Her hand caressed his arm with an intimacy that made my stomach churn.

'Damn it, how did Scarlett find me here?' Raphael's thoughts came through, filled with anxiety.

"Don't forget about next week—we're attending the Vanderbilt charity gala," Scarlett's voice was sickeningly sweet, "to officially announce our engagement."

Engagement?

I felt my blood freeze. My hand gripped the blanket in my bag so tight my knuckles went white.

"Engagement?" I heard my own voice, unnaturally sharp.

Only then did Scarlett notice me, her gaze instantly sharpening. "Oh, and you are?"

"A friend. Isadora." Raphael's introduction was brief, but I could hear the panic in his thoughts: 'I never agreed to any engagement, but how do I explain this now?'

"Nice to meet you." Scarlett smiled falsely, then turned back to Raphael. "Darling, you shouldn't discuss personal matters with strangers. She might not understand how things work in our circle."

Our circle? Strangers?

I wanted to get up and leave, but my legs felt like lead.

Scarlett deliberately raised her left hand, flaunting the massive Cartier ring: "This is what Raph gave me last year. Our families go way back—arranged since childhood."

The ring caught the café lights.

'Family friends,' 'arranged since childhood,' 'our circle'... each word stabbed into my heart like a knife.

I heard Raphael's mental struggle: 'I never agreed to any engagement, but how do I explain? Family expectations, business considerations, and Scarlett, she...'

"Our relationship is... complicated." Scarlett continued, her tone carrying a victor's superiority. "But family tradition is family tradition, isn't it? Good breeding, mutual benefits—that's what makes a successful foundation."

I looked down at my hands—no manicure, no designer watch, nothing that could prove I belonged to "their circle."

The atmosphere at the table turned ice-cold. I felt like an intruder, an outsider who had no business being here.

Raphael sat there, his expression heavy, but he didn't deny a single word.

"I... I should go." I barely managed those words, my voice shaking audibly.

"Oh, so soon?" Scarlett's fake concern was nauseating. "We were just getting acquainted."

I stood up, my legs unsteady. The blanket in my bag felt heavy, like it was mocking my naivety.

Raphael looked at me with an emotion I couldn't read. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but ultimately said nothing.

'I should explain, but...' His thoughts came through, filled with helplessness and conflict.

But what? But what's the point of explaining to a stranger who doesn't belong in your world?

I turned toward the door, each step feeling like walking on razor blades. Behind me came Scarlett's bell-like laughter and her words to Raphael: "She doesn't look very happy. Probably realized she doesn't belong here."

Yes, I definitely didn't belong here. I didn't belong in a world with five hundred thousand Instagram followers, didn't belong in an upper-class society with childhood arrangements, and certainly didn't belong in a wealthy circle that could casually gift tens-of-thousands-dollar rings.

Walking out of the café, Manhattan's cold wind hit my face. I hugged myself tight, feeling colder than a New York winter.

The blanket in my bag no longer felt warm—it felt suffocatingly heavy.

I thought about Scarlett's victorious expression when she flaunted that ring, her condescending tone when she said "our circle," Raphael's silent expression...

So this was reality. No matter how many of his thoughts I could hear, no matter how much warmth I could make him feel, I could never truly enter his world.

And he could never truly enter mine.

The street bustled with people heading home from work, everyone seeming to know exactly where they belonged. Everyone except me.

I pulled out my phone and stared at Raphael's contact. My thumb hovered over the delete button.

'What did I think would happen?' I asked myself. 'That some magical blanket would bridge the gap between a struggling art student and a banking heir?'

The wind picked up, and I shivered.

I was nobody. Just a girl with a secondhand jacket and a supernatural secret that meant absolutely nothing in the face of family fortunes and social expectations.

The blanket in my bag suddenly felt like a burden, a reminder of how pathetic my little game had been. All those moments of feeling powerful, of believing I had some kind of connection with him—it was all just fantasy.

Scarlett Winthrop, with her perfect hair and perfect background and perfect ring, was his reality. I was just... an amusing distraction.

I walked to the subway, each step taking me further from that world of charity galas and arranged marriages, back to my cramped Brooklyn apartment where the heat sometimes didn't work and where checking my bank balance was a daily anxiety.

But as I descended into the subway station, one thought echoed in my mind—a memory of Raphael's voice, not his polished public tone, but the vulnerable whisper I'd heard through our connection:

'I never agreed to any engagement.'