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Becky Blaze didn't believe in fate. She believed in fury.
And today, the universe seemed determined to test how far it could push hers.
The rain had started just after noon—one of those loud, rude downpours that showed up without warning, soaking the city like it had a grudge. Thunder cracked over rooftops. The streets turned into wide rivers of filth. Horns blared, people cursed, and umbrellas flipped inside out like the wind was collecting trophies.
Becky ducked out of the boxing gym and pulled her hoodie up, but it was useless. The moment she stepped into the open, water clung to her like glue. Still, she didn't care. Her shift was over, her mood was bearable, and she had her errands to run. Life didn't pause just because the sky threw a tantrum.
At the corner of Madison and 14th, she spotted Mr. Ellis—one of her old neighbors from the block—struggling to cross the street with his shopping bag dragging in the puddles. She jogged over and held out her umbrella, sharing what little shelter she could offer.
"Need a hand?" she asked, sliding her arm through his.
"You're a good girl, Becky. Always have been," he said, giving her a tired smile.
She rolled her eyes and smiled right back. "You say that like I'm gonna stop."
They shuffled forward together, slow but steady, as the traffic light turned red. Just a few more steps and they'd be across.
That's when it happened.
The car came out of nowhere—sleek, black, and shameless. It cut across the intersection without slowing down, its tires slicing through a massive puddle like it was trying to make a statement.
WHOOSH.
A wall of brown, icy water exploded over them.
Mr. Ellis coughed and stumbled back. Becky froze.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her entire body was soaked, her curls dripping down her cheeks. The umbrella hung useless in her hand. Her hoodie clung to her skin like plastic wrap. She didn't feel the cold—not really. Just the sting of it.
But more than that, it was the disrespect that stung the most.
The car didn't even stop.
It rolled forward casually, like what it had done wasn't even worth acknowledging. The driver stayed seated—hands on the wheel, posture relaxed, not a single inch of him showing remorse.
Becky's eyes narrowed.
And when she caught a glimpse of his face through the tinted window, something inside her snapped.
He looked like he belonged on a billboard. Dark, perfectly styled hair, chiseled cheekbones, and a jawline so sharp it could've sliced bread. His suit was black, probably designer, and his expression—detached, composed, bored—was exactly the kind of thing that made her blood boil.
He hadn't even blinked.
Not a nod, not a sorry wave, not a my bad. Just eyes like steel watching the road like they owned it.
Wrong move.
Becky passed Mr. Ellis the umbrella and stomped through the ankle-deep water toward the driver's side. Her shoes squished with each step, her fingers already curled into fists. She didn't know what she was going to say, but she knew it wasn't going to be polite.
The car stopped at the red light. Perfect.
Becky reached the driver's window and slapped her wet palms onto the door with a loud smack. The sound cracked through the storm.
The window rolled down slowly.
He turned his head.
Up close, he was even worse. Not a hair out of place. His tie was straight. His shirt was flawless. And his face? Completely unreadable. Like nothing could touch him.
She leaned in.
"Are you blind," she snapped, "or just stupid with expensive shoes?"
His gaze didn't flicker. "It was an accident."
Becky let out a short, harsh laugh. "Oh, an accident. Of course. You accidentally treated us like trash on your way to whatever throne you crawled out of."
He didn't react.
"You think because you drive a shiny toy you can drown people and call it an oopsie?"
"You're overreacting," he said calmly.
She blinked. Then smiled. Then reached into the window, grabbed his spotless collar, and yanked.
His head hit the seat with a dull thud.
Not hard enough to cause damage. Just enough to wrinkle that perfect suit and bruise the ego beneath it.
"You're lucky I'm too tired to rearrange your nose," she muttered, letting go and wiping her wet hand on his lapel. "Next time, say sorry before your car ends up in a gutter."
She turned on her heel and walked away, water splashing with each step.
Behind her, the car stayed still. The engine purred softly, like it wasn't sure what just happened either.
Mr. Ellis gave her a look that was somewhere between stunned and proud. "That was... something."
She gave him the umbrella and offered her arm again. "Let's get you home before I do something worse."
The light turned green. The car still hadn't moved.
Inside, Dante Marcono sat frozen.
He touched the collar she'd crumpled. His jaw shifted slightly.
Then, for the first time in a long time, he smiled.
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Later That Night – Becky's Apartment
Her apartment wasn't much. One bedroom. Peeling walls. A sink that groaned every time she turned the tap. But it was hers.
She tossed her soaked hoodie into the laundry basket and peeled off her wet socks. The rain was still pouring outside, tapping against her window like it was trying to get in.
She made tea. Because it was all she could do. Something warm, something steady.
But even as she sat curled on the futon, fingers wrapped around her mug, her brain wouldn't shut up.
That man. That stupid car. That smug face.
She hated that she remembered it. Hated that she could still feel the cool texture of his shirt between her fingers. That damn smile when she walked away.
Who the hell was he?
He wasn't just rich. He was used to being untouchable.
Becky stared out the window, the street below fogged in mist and neon lights. Her jaw clenched.
People like him didn't learn unless someone made them.
Well, maybe today, she had.
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Updated Section – Marcono Estate Scene
The estate was silent, except for the rain hitting the stone walls like it was trying to remind the house it wasn't made of gold.
Dante walked in, unbothered, coat already removed and folded neatly over one arm.
His father, Vincent Marcono, sat in the study with a half-lit cigar and the kind of stare that could peel flesh from bone.
"You're late," Vincent said, not looking up from his paper.
"There was traffic," Dante replied, calm.
Vincent grunted. "Judging by the mess on your shirt, I assume traffic hit back."
Dante glanced down at his wrinkled collar, slowly smoothing it with his fingers. His expression didn't change, but the crease from Becky's hand was still there. Almost like a signature.
"She was…" He paused, searching for the right word. "Unexpected."
Vincent looked up at that. "She?"
"Someone I ran into," Dante said casually.
Vincent narrowed his eyes. "Do I need to know her name?"
Dante didn't answer.
He walked to the bar, poured himself a glass of scotch, and took a long sip. Outside, thunder rolled again, deep and far.
Vincent studied him for a moment, then turned back to his paper.
But Dante was still thinking about her.
The rain. Her fire. The way she didn't flinch.
She had no idea who he was.
And yet she looked him dead in the eye and called him out.
People didn't do that. Not anymore.
And suddenly, he wanted to know everything about her.
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