Millionaire Sneaks Away from a Press Event, Meets a Woman Who Unexpectedly Captures His Heart
Escape from the Red Carpet
Darien Zayn yanked off his tie the second he stepped into the hallway. The sound of clinking champagne glasses and camera shutters still echoed behind him.
He ducked into the service elevator, ignoring the assistant calling his name from the ballroom. God, he hated these press events, flashing fake smiles while investors toasted to his latest tech acquisition.
He was pretending like he didn’t want to set the entire room on fire just to get out of it. He pressed the ground floor button and exhaled, finally alone.
He needed air—real air—and maybe a moment where no one asked him about stocks, shares, or strategy. The elevator doors opened onto the quiet loading dock behind the hotel.
He slipped through the exit, walking fast, his polished shoes hitting pavement instead of red carpet. The city buzzed around him: honking taxis, distant sirens, and people laughing as they spilled out of restaurants.
He kept walking until the golden glow of the hotel faded behind him. He turned a corner and stopped.
There, sitting on a concrete step outside a tiny bookstore with a flickering neon “Open Late” sign, was a woman. She was eating fries out of a paper bag, a beat-up leather journal open in her lap.
She looked up.
“You lost?” she asked, brushing a fry crumb from her jeans.
Darien hesitated, then shrugged.
“Kind of escaped, actually.”
She raised her brows.
“Escaped?”
“Black-tie event. Too many cameras. Too much champagne. Not enough oxygen.”
She laughed—really laughed—like she didn’t care who he was or what he was running from.
“Well, lucky you. You’ve arrived at the only bookstore in Manhattan that sells fries after 10 p.m.”
He smiled, really smiled, for the first time in days.
“Is that on the sign?”
“No,” she said, offering him a fry, “but it should be.”
He took one and sat down beside her.
“I’m Darien.”
“Vera,” she said. “Vera Heart.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The city buzzed on, but here on the bookstore steps, it felt like time slowed.
“What are you writing?” Darien asked, nodding at her journal.
“Terrible poetry I’ll never show anyone,” she said, closing it.
“You don’t even know where I live,” he shrugged.
“That’s what walking you home is for.”
She looked him up and down like she was trying to figure out whether he was a lunatic or just had really good hair.
“All right, cufflinks,” she said finally, “but only because you seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t know how to cross a street without a driver.”
She was right; he almost stepped into traffic at the first light. They walked for twenty minutes and talked about nothing and everything.
She told him about quitting a corporate job two years ago to help her sister keep the bookstore alive. He told her, carefully edited, that he worked in tech.
He didn’t mention the Forbes cover or the fact that his company had just been valued at $500 million. She didn’t ask; she didn’t care. That was the most peaceful thing he’d felt in months.
They stopped outside a narrow brownstone.
“Well,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear, “thanks for the walk.”
“Thanks for the fries,” she smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
