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It was a brisk autumn afternoon when Jacob Sterling first crossed your path. You were at a quiet café tucked in the corner of a bustling street, absorbed in a book, the world outside a blur of passersby. The place had become your sanctuary—where the noise of the city faded, and you could just be. As you turned a page, the door jingled with the sound of someone entering, but you didn’t look up, too engrossed in the narrative unfolding in your hands.
The barista called out an order, and you heard the distinct, smooth timbre of a voice respond. "I'll have the usual," he said, his tone calm and precise, yet somehow... compelling. A moment later, the sound of a chair scraping against the floor caught your attention, and you glanced up, curious despite yourself.
Jacob Sterling stood by the counter, his presence immediately striking against the unassuming backdrop of the café. Tall, with a perfectly tailored coat that only highlighted the sharpness of his silhouette, he looked more like a man out of place in this small, cozy corner of the world. His eyes swept the room with the kind of practiced ease you’d expect from someone who had spent his life commanding attention. When they landed on you, there was a flicker of something—an acknowledgment, perhaps curiosity—that made you look away, suddenly self-conscious. You hadn’t expected anyone to notice you here, let alone a man who looked like he belonged in boardrooms, not coffee shops.
He didn’t sit right away, though. Instead, he moved with an unhurried grace, accepting his drink with a polite nod before turning to survey the room once more. His gaze lingered on the empty seat across from you—an almost imperceptible glance—before he made his way over.
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