The first time she had seen him, he had been flagging down a taxi from the opposite kerb in the most practiced of ways; despite the huge bouquet and the many colorful shopping bags which crowded his arms. His black coat hung perfectly off his broad shoulders and his forehead was creased with an irritation that was only too adorable as he cursed at a slipping shoulder bag, pushing it higher up as a taxi halted before him. She would have laughed if not for her rising intrigue as the man had climbed in alone into the waiting vehicle, perfectly maneuvering the bouquet in through the door without crushing it, before banging the door shut after him and zooming off into traffic. A demanding girlfriend maybe or even an ailing family member—the possibilities were endless in a city such as London as Kate told herself belatedly, waiting for the light to turn so that she could cross the road. She had only consoled herself with the thought that she would never see him again as she had sipped on her latte and typed away resolutely at her laptop, eyes sometimes straying over the cloudy London skyline beyond the glass wall of her office to daydream.

Because after all, what were the odds?

… … …

Many, as she would soon learn.

She might have had a few extra glasses of bubbly than was socially permissible, she confessed to herself even as she had reached out for another one from the tray before her. But how did it matter? The slight buzz was welcome and she would only sleep once she got home tonight, marveling at yet another article finished well before the deadline, well before Agatha Danbury could hunt her down to her cubicle, thwacking on the wood of her desk to hurry her up. And when she would wake up tomorrow, she would begin anew, with a stray aspirin and a glass of extra strong chai, steeped to perfection, the smell of cardamom strong enough to cure even the worst hangovers.

The Finches had been an easy couple to write for. And as Sophie had commented earlier in the week after reading the draft, an entirely predictable one too. But something else had stuck with her as Sophie had stood up from her seat across the table, fixing her brilliant green eyes on Kate, as she had shrugged—

"No wonder, Agatha does not want to mess with you. You really do have a knack for this."

"What do you mean?" Kate had frowned, hand stilling on the mouse before her as Sophie had sighed in defeat, regretting her inadvertent confession.

"Remember, how you met her last week, about succeeding old McKinnon once he leaves in November? Well, a little birdie told me that Agatha is not even considering you for that since you already have a dedicated column of your own in the Sunday paper. And you have the numbers too, as well as the loyal fan letters to convince her and the board-members of her decision."

Kate felt an indignation fill her: "So, she won't let me branch out because I'm good at what I do?"

"You're reliable is what I am saying." Sophie sat back down on the swivel-chair that she had earlier vacated, her voice tender as if talking to a stubborn child, "Your column has a steady fan base which corresponds to growing sales and subscriptions and not to mention the increased interaction and exposure that this brings to the entire newspaper in extension. And Agatha would rather cut off her right arm than have you shift over to a column that has only been losing its readership since the late 90s—a beast well and truly dead now with its latest tone-deaf reporting on the Taliban crisis."

Kate had seen the logic in Sophie's words even as her heart had rebelled. Her internship had seen her bright and bushy-tailed, eager to please and only too determined to make her mark in journalism. The Sunday wedding column had been a huge jump in terms of status and Kate had only been too happy to have made a mark so early in her career to have an entire column to herself—a column which had only expanded in the five years that she had been helming it. It had made her a household name almost: the invitations to weddings coming in quicker than she would have expected and often saw her choosing the weddings that she really wanted to write about—a privilege which was definitely not allowed to her predecessors. And yet, she often dreamed about making her mark in the grittier aspects of the paper— writing about actual crises in the world order than about how the number of layers of the wedding cake were an homage to the number of times the bride had been thwarted in love.

"I need a golden ticket." She found herself saying as Sophie had only frowned and shaken her head in an emphatic sign of surrender. "Agatha cannot do this to me."

"Suit yourself." Sophie had thrown over her shoulder as she had returned to her own cubicle, "I can only wish you luck."

Kate had taken another swig. She had not been joking and yet, somehow, Sophie's dismissal had hurt her pride greatly. Kate smiled politely at happy faces around her as she slowly weaved through the many guests, finding her way out of the great hall into the cool air outside, standing on the steps of the hotel, watching the London traffic go past. She wanted to leave. But there were still some hours left— hours to be filled with niceties and clicking pictures for her social account.

She had been startled out of her thoughts by a man zooming past her, almost knocking into her in the process. But Kate felt the curse on her tongue dissipate as she looked into the same tawny gaze of a few weeks back, the mystery man who had only imprinted himself onto her mind shouting out a hurried apology even as he climbed into a taxi that was waiting for him, one she had not cared to notice before, a little distance away by the sidewalk. He was already loosening the bow around his neck as he banged the door behind him, urging the driver to take off, face looking quite panicked. Kate frowned. Why was he in such a hurry?

It had been weird that she would run into him, in such a way, again—where she was the one feeling so lost and intrigued by him, even as he had sped away from her yet again. Kate stood frozen on the steps for some time, her brain again flicking through multiple impossible scenarios in which she could place him in, like she had done before, and she came up blank. He had been agitated—an emergency, perhaps? She cursed herself for not being attentive before—she could have spotted the man in that sea of people that Philippa Finch née Featherington had invited to her wedding and confronted him. About what? Speeding away to a social event in a taxi, without making eye contact with her across the street a few weeks ago? Making her nights excruciating by the way his dark windswept hair had fallen across his eyes as he had climbed into the car? She pressed the cool glass of the champagne flute against her head—she was really spiraling, wasn't she?

But the evening still had other plans for her. Kate had returned to the banquet after the chill had slowly permeated through her dress onto her skin, cooled her down enough to brave the last few hours of the evening. She had feasted, she had danced and she had drunk some more champagne as she had patiently listened to the speeches dedicated to the bride and the groom. She had been diligent in not catching anyone's eye across the floor and the bar and as Philippa had shrieked at her to join the small bevy of girls waiting for the bouquet, Kate had done just so a tad reluctantly, taking her place among the squealing girls, even as the excitement had glimmered within her at the prospect. Maybe, this time…

But she should have known that it would not be so perfect for her—it never was. She was Kate Sharma, after all. Sheep would fly before she would have her happy ending. Even as the perfect little bouquet of daisies and roses had hurtled towards her, making her extend her limbs in expectation, she had only been knocked into violently, making her lose her footing. Her precious Louboutins had only got stuck among the floorboarding, she suspected, as she had found herself falling freely for a moment—a blissful moment, until her head had cracked against the floor and the pain had hurtled through her skull.

And then, everything went black.

… … …

The voice was soft, almost like a gentle coax for her to wake up. The fingers caressing her skin seemed to assuage the throbs in her head and as Kate opened her eyes, she was briefly blinded by the lights until her eyes refocused and the spotlights cleared into the brilliant specks that they were in the ceiling. She stayed like that for a moment, almost not caring for the hardness beneath her, allowing the thrum in her head to dim. Until he had popped into her line of vision and made her gasp, which made the man in question also push his palms up in a gesture of pacification—

"I got you." His voice was deep and perfect and as her skittering heartbeat tried to settle, Kate realized that her reaction had been entirely unwarranted. Of course, he did not know what she knew, did not know how his vision had plagued her through countless nights. He had not been paying attention the first time and the second time, it had been too dark and he was in too much of a rush. Not his fault, at all. His hand gently supported her as she tried to sit up, even as he urged her to take it easy, barking out gentle orders to the stragglers around him to bring him an ice pack or to simply disperse so that Kate could get some air.

"Just a bump to the head, everyone. She is fine." He had yelled out to the hall, making Kate's mortification rise within her as she sat beside him. But he had only turned back to her with a grin which made her breathless, holding up three fingers before her, his voice deliberate—

"How many?"

"Three." She found herself saying obediently as he had nodded contentedly: "I think you should be fine now."

"I'm Anthony." He offered charmingly, without being prompted to do so, hand still resting on the small of her back, thumb rubbing over the fabric of her dress in a way that only made her heat up from within. She frowned at his ease but he had only waited patiently, until Kate found herself sighing out her own— "Kate."

"Well Kate…He had stood up and extended a hand out to her, allowing her to grip him for precious support as she had pulled herself up, only to stand and tilt off her axis, making a beeline for the floor again, prompting him to grab her more firmly by the arm—a delicious contact which made her body sing treacherously: "Maybe, you are not so fine after all?" He frowned now but thankfully, no one was looking at them anymore, too interested in the wedding cake that was being served at the table ahead— "Do you want to leave?"

"Can I?" She had asked in a small voice, even though she knew in some part of her brain that she did not need his permission to do so. But the warmth beside her made her a little weak even as the throbs in her head remained. Maybe it was not a small bump after all. It was then that one of the bridesmaids returned with an icepack and Kate had accepted it gracefully, letting out a small hiss as she adjusted it against the bump in her head. Anthony's face had been entirely too concerned as he held on to her—

"I have a taxi waiting outside. It can take you home." He allowed her to collect her only possession of a bejeweled purse from her seat before guiding her outside into the familiar fresh air. He helped her into the taxi and peered in by the window, catching her eyes with his soft brown gaze glittering in the night with an unknown emotion—

"Goodbye Kate."

"Goodbye Anthony." She whispered as the car moved away from the kerb onto the road ahead, watching him greedily as he too stared back at her—looking perfect in his dark suit as the light from the hotel shone over him. Kate felt a sudden pang as the vehicle turned a corner and she finally lost sight of him. The string that connected them for only a while finally snapped again. But at least she knew his name now:

Anthony.

Until she shifted just a bit on the vinyl seats to become comfortable as she laid back and her foot struck something on the floor. She peered carefully into the darkness and reached out—her fingers gripping onto a smooth leather binder. The rich material reflected the passing lights from the window and as Kate opened the cover, she came across a meticulously filled planner— neatly penned dates and entries along with careful reminders on post-it notes decorating the sides. It had only a few pages left towards the end, but Kate's breath was stolen away as she flipped through the many dates: the first one going back to an early 2013. It was a wedding planner—each entry and sometimes page carefully dedicated to a wedding and its needs—flowers, emergencies, catering…Kate frowned as she read one particular entry in one of the latter pages: Frank's alimony meeting.

The car screeching to a halt startled her out of her jumbled thoughts as she looked up to the rearview mirror to see the driver looking up at her, waiting for her patiently to realize that she had already reached her flat. She struggled to take out the meagre bills from her purse when the deep voice interrupted her, telling her that this trip was already paid for. She nodded and tumbled out; binder clutched tightly to her bosom as she heard the rumble of the car moving away from her.

She could not get through the door fast enough, toeing off her stilettoes by the rack, dumping her purse and binder on the small island as she poured herself a final glass of chilled red, eager to wash down the lingering sweetness with the familiar tartness. And as she had bent over the mysterious binder, opened it finally to the first page, she had appreciated the neat penmanship even as her heart had thudded wildly in her chest, head a little light as she ran her finger over the black ink—

Anthony Bridgerton.

Her golden ticket: She had found him at last.

…. …. ….