His Fathers's Ring, His Son's Touch

Amara's Pov

I stepped up to the counter, pulling my coat tighter against the draft.

"The usual, Amara?" the barista, a guy named Theo with tired eyes and a kind smile, asked before I could even open my mouth.

I offered a small, weary smile. "Please. A large iced Americano with three pumps of white chocolate mocha and a heavy splash of cream. I need the sugar to survive this morning's presentation."

"Coming right up. Big day at the firm?"

"The biggest," I murmured, checking my watch. I still had time before heading to the office. If I was late one bit, Mr. Henderson would kill me.

Theo slid the plastic cup toward me, the dark espresso marbling beautifully with the thick cream. "Break a leg."

"Thanks, Theo."

I grabbed the cup, the condensation chilling my palm, and turned with a sharp, hurried pivot, colliding with a wall of solid muscle and expensive perfume. The lid of my cup popped, and splashed on him, soaking into his white shirt and a charcoal blazer that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

"Oh, God! I'm so sorry-I was in such a rush-"

My hands went out instinctively to brush at the mess, but my breath hitched in my throat, dying there. My eyes traveled up from the coffee-stained silk tie, past a sharp jawline, and landed on a pair of blue eyes.

Lucas.

The world outside the cafe windows blurred into a gray smear. Two years. Two years since he had walked out of our apartment in the middle of the night without a note, a word, or a backward glance. He had broken up with me without any explanation, and now, here he was.

He looked older. Harder. His hair was slicked back, and his presence felt heavy.

"Amara?" His voice was a low rasp, a sound that sent a shiver down my spine.

"Lucas," I breathed, the name tasting like ash.

"Babe? Is everything okay?"

A woman stepped out from behind him. She was beautiful in that effortless, polished way that suggested she had never known a day of struggle in her life. Her brunette hair was gathered in a perfect chignon, and she immediately reached for a silk handkerchief from her clutch.

"Oh, no, your shirt is ruined," she said, her voice soft and genuinely concerned. She didn't look at me with anger; she looked at me with the pity one reserves for a clumsy stranger. She turned to Lucas, dabbing at his chest. "It's fine, honey. We can just stop at the boutique on the way to the office and get you a new one. Are you hurt?"

*Honey.* My gaze dropped to his hand as he reached up to catch her wrist. There, on his ring finger, sat a silver ring.

He was married.

Lucas didn't answer her. His eyes were locked on mine, intense and unreadable. He looked like he wanted to reach out; he looked like he wanted to scream.

"Do you know her,