"Compensation? You think this can be fixed with money?"

Lydia Thorne glanced at the nearly crying intern, her voice coated with ice.


Her cherry red 1965 Mustang was her mother's only keepsake. Now a glaring scratch ran down its side, like a scar on a masterpiece.

And tonight of all nights, she had an unavoidable charity gala at the Met.

She glanced at the Cartier Tank on her wrist and snapped at the garage manager:

"I'm in a hurry. Either fix it now or expect a letter from my lawyer."

"...Lydia?"


From behind the hood, a man in gray coveralls looked up.

Broad shoulders. Narrow, solid waist. Sweat had dampened a few strands of black hair on his forehead, his tanned skin gleaming under the workshop lights. When he looked up, he revealed eyes too clear and bright for this oil-scented garage.

Caleb Miller. She remembered now—that "Mr. Saint."

Last time she'd picked up her car, Caleb had been meticulously cleaning an Aston Martin's interior. He'd worked with almost meditative focus, as if the cloth in his hands were sacred.

Now this saint was looking at her, his eyes carrying a barely perceptible weariness at her imperious tone.

Lydia knew how she must appear to him—just another unreasonable New Yorker. A spoiled "bad seed" from the Upper East Side.

Perfect. She liked this dynamic.

"How much? I'll cover it." Caleb wiped his hands and stepped forward, shielding the intern.

Lydia's gaze slid from his muscular arms to his oil-stained coveralls, her lips curling into a contemptuous smile.
"If someone else offered, I might consider it. But you—one of New York's future model cops? Too bad your sense of justice is worthless to me."

He seemed unprepared for her response, momentarily stunned. His silence gave Lydia a perverse satisfaction.

Caleb didn't argue. He simply turned to the manager and said: "Take it from my salary. I'll handle it."

His skill was impressive—polishing, touch-up painting, movements swift and precise. In less than an hour, the scratch had vanished completely.

As he gave a final wipe with a clean velvet cloth, Lydia leaned against the car door, watching him intently.
"Thank you."

Her gratitude, tinged with unexpected sincerity, caught him off guard. Caleb awkwardly replied, "You're welcome."

Lydia slid into the driver's seat and fired up the engine. The V8 roared like a beast awakening.

She lowered the window and flashed him a brilliant, malicious smile devoid of warmth.

"Thank you for fixing my car."

She paused, her tone light as if heading to an eagerly anticipated date.

"After all, I'm rushing to torment that little princess Ella—the one you've been protecting since childhood."

"I almost didn't make it in time."

She floored the gas pedal.

In the rearview mirror, Caleb Miller stood frozen, his righteous calm finally cracking into pure astonishment.