Arnold leaned against the brick wall, hood still up, coffee in one hand.
Up close, his disguise didn't hold. She saw right through it — the fine cut of his jaw, the heat in his expression.
"I knew it was you," she said.
He looked sideways at her, then took another sip.
"Didn't want to cause a scene," he said coolly. "Some people in there tend to recognize billionaires who've been on the cover of Forbes."
Freya crossed her arms. "So naturally, you decided to come in full disguise and brood in the corner like Batman?"
"I don't brood."
"You absolutely brood."
He smirked, the smallest tug at his lips. "I used to come here a lot. Back when I still did normal things. Didn't want the press following me."
"You're telling me this is just a coincidence?"
"I'm telling you," Arnold said, stepping just slightly closer, "that I didn't like the way that guy was looking at you."
Freya blinked, totally caught unaware by his honesty.
"Alex?" she asked, trying to keep a casual tone. "He's harmless."
"Harmless," He repeated, the word bitter on his tongue. "He was practically leaning into your lap."
She laughed once, then raised a brow. "Did you come here to spy on me?"
"No," he said, too quickly. Then, with a faint smile, "Maybe the universe arranged this coincidence because I actually wanted to see you."
He looked at her fully now, with an intense gaze that stole breath from her lungs.
She was still for a moment.
And the noise of the city was distant, as if it was just the two of them — and the space between them that buzzed like a live wire.
"If you wanted to see me, you could've called," she finally said with a quieter voice.
"But you never gave me your contact–"
"Uh, I won't buy that excuse," she scoffed. "I know it'd cost you nothing to fetch out my number in the twinkle of an eye."
Arnold chuckled in a surrendering manner. "Ok. Ok. I almost did."
"But?"
"I didn't know if I had the right to."
"Oh, but you had the right to show up here out of the blue and summon me outside?" She said in a sarcastic tone.
Arnold trailed off, short of words.
"You're ridiculous," she mumbled. "I should get back inside. When are you leaving?"
"When you are." He smiled slowly. "I'm not gonna be a pain in the neck though. Just pretend I'm absent."
"Right, Tell Alex I said hi." he said as he stepped aside.
Freya didn't answer. She looked at him for a moment longer, then shook her head and turned to leave.
Across the street, behind tinted windows of a black car, Greg Hills' agent—a man in a dull gray coat with a camera resting in his lap—clicked another photo through the windshield.
He sent the image in a message labeled only: "Target with unknown male."
The reply came almost instantly.
Greg: "That's not an unknown male. I'm sure it's Arnold. Even in that hoodie. Enhance the image. You see it now? His jawline. His posture. He's been hiding."
The spy blinked, squinting at the photo.
Greg: "Hit her. Not hard. Just enough to test him. I want to see if this is real."
The agent hesitated. Then started the car.
___
As Freya stepped out of the alleyway, Arnold leaned against the wall, silently watching her with an unexplainable smile on his face.
And then it happened.
A flash of headlights. The screech of tires.
Arnold's body moved before his mind did.
CRACK.
The car caught Freya at the hip and she was thrown off her feet, her bag skidding across the pavement. She hit the ground with a thud and didn't move.
Everything slowed.
Arnold was already sprinting before the car even stopped. His hood fell back as he ran, revealing his face fully to the street and anyone watching.
"FREYA!"
He dropped to his knees beside her, one hand pressed to her cheek, and the other checking her pulse with trembling fingers.
And for a second, the man who ruled empires looked terrified. Human.
From the other end of the street, the sedan drove away slowly, unnoticed in the commotion.
"Freya," Arnold breathed. "Stay with me."
Blood pooled beneath her elbow where the skin had scraped harshly against the road. Her lip was split. Her eyes fluttered, trying to focus on his face.
"Arnold?" she whispered.
He exhaled hard, relief flashing across his face. "Yes. I'm here."
The crowd had started to gather. At first, no one realized who he was. Just a man helping an injured woman. But then came the whispers.
"That looks like—"
"Isn't that Arnold Connor?"
Phones were raised. Flashes went off.
Arnold ignored them.
Let the headlines run. Let the world see him panic. Nothing mattered right now except the woman in front of him.
Sirens howled in the distance—someone must have called an ambulance.
"Don't close your eyes," he told her in a commanding but gentle voice. "You're going to be fine. Do you hear me?"
Freya managed a faint nod, but her fingers trembled as they curled weakly around his wrist.
Back in the quiet room of his hidden bar, Gregory received the final photo.
Freya lying in the street. Arnold holding her like she was made of glass.
"So it is real. He does care."
He smiled faintly. "Now I know Arnold Connor's Achilles heel…"