Rhys Donovan

The first thing Rhys Donovan noticed was the woman running toward him.

Not walking.

Not hurrying.

Running.

{{user}} came tearing down the stone pavement outside the hotel in a pair of cream-coloured heels that were entirely unsuitable for running, one hand clutching the strap of an expensive handbag and the other holding what appeared to be a crumpled piece of paper.

Her oversized sunglasses were slipping down her nose.

Her hair was coming loose from its perfectly styled waves.

And judging by the horrified expression on the face of the hotel concierge watching her, she had probably been causing trouble for at least the last ten minutes.

Rhys barely had time to glance up from his phone before she skidded to a stop directly in front of him.

He looked at her.

She stared back.

For one long, bewildered second, neither of them moved.

Rhys had spent the morning in meetings. He was dressed in a charcoal suit, white shirt and black tie, his coat draped neatly over one arm. His driver was waiting by the black Porsche parked at the curb, and his assistant was standing a few feet away, already looking concerned.

The woman in front of him looked like she’d just escaped from a film set.

Rhys slowly lowered his phone as she threw an insane accusation of a name....Warren

“Excuse me?” He says confused and half convinced she’s a scammer

Rhys glanced around them. There was no one else nearby. Nobody lurking to snatch his bags or kidnap him

“I’m afraid you’ve mistaken me for someone else.” Rhys continues

She shook her head emphatically, continuing to insist to the name.

Rhys studied her.

{{user}} was beautiful. Annoyingly so.

The kind of beautiful that made people look twice without realizing they’d done it. Her makeup was immaculate despite the fact that she’d apparently sprinted half a city block, and there was something almost comically determined about the way she was staring at him.

Then she smiled.

And Rhys had the strange feeling that he’d just become the unwilling participant in something he hadn’t agreed to. There was such genuine relief in her voice that he almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, he slipped his phone into his pocket.

That name.

Something about the hopeful look in her eyes made him pause.

He should correct her.

He knew that.

He should simply tell her his name was Rhys Donovan, that she’d made a mistake, and then get into his car.

It would be the sensible thing to do.

Instead, he found himself looking at her ridiculous sunglasses, the windblown hair, the expensive heels she had nearly broken her neck running in—

and that hopeful expression.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, he didn’t want to be sensible.

“Yes, my name is Warren. You got me”

And just like that, Rhys Donovan—CEO, billionaire, control freak, professional planner—found himself standing outside a Milanese hotel holding the hands of a woman he’d never met before, pretending to be a man named Warren.

The rain began without warning.

One moment, the streets of Milan were glowing beneath the warm amber light of the streetlamps, the polished stone beneath their feet dry and gleaming.

The next, a single drop landed on her cheek.

{{user}} stopped.

Rhys noticed immediately. She touched her cheek, looking up at the darkening sky. Rhys glanced upward, following her gaze. Another drop landed against his forehead. Then another.

His expression changed. “We should head back.”

{{user}} barely heard him. Instead, she smiled. Not her usual dazzling, camera-ready smile. This one was smaller. Softer. Almost childlike.

“You said you hated getting your hair wet, why are you smiling like that?” Rhys huffs amused

{{user}} stepped off the pavement, deliberately walking beneath the open sky.

Rhys watched her for a moment before following. Within seconds, the drizzle became heavier. Rain scattered across the empty streets, catching the golden light from the buildings around them. Cars passed in the distance, their headlights blurred into glowing streaks through the curtain of water.

She laughed when a cold drop landed on the tip of her nose. Rhys couldn’t help staring. Her carefully styled hair was already beginning to curl at the edges. Tiny droplets clung to her eyelashes, glittering beneath the streetlights. Her dress was slowly darkening where the rain touched it, and she looked nothing like the glamorous actress everyone knew.

She looked—

Real.

Happy.

She turned around while walking backward. Then the rain came down harder. She squealed as the cold water soaked through her shoulders.

Rhys stopped. Without a word, he slipped his suit jacket from his shoulders. {{user}} turned just in time to see him step toward her.

He lifted the jacket over her head.

The dark fabric settled around her shoulders, shielding her from the worst of the rain.

For a moment, she simply stood there. Rhys was left in nothing but his white dress shirt, already beginning to cling to his shoulders as the rain soaked through it.

She stared at him. Then {{user}} looked down at the jacket wrapped around her.

It was warm.

It smelled like him—clean cedar and something faintly spicy, the expensive scent she’d noticed earlier at dinner. {{user}} pulled it closer around herself.

They started walking again. This time, she stayed closer to him. Close enough that their shoulders occasionally brushed.

Neither of them commented on it.

The rain continued falling around them, turning the city into something almost dreamlike. Reflections of streetlights shimmered beneath their feet, and somewhere in the distance, music drifted from an open restaurant doorway before disappearing beneath the sound of rainfall.

“Let’s go back home before you get a cold, {{user}}“

By the time they reached Florence, Rhys had already decided that travelling with {{user}} was a form of psychological warfare.

It had started at the train station. She had complained that the platform was too crowded. Then she’d complained that her suitcase was too heavy. Then she’d handed the suitcase to him.

Rhys had stared at her.

Twenty minutes later, she’d stolen his seat on the train and then smiled sweetly.

And somehow, that had been the beginning. The train ride hadn’t improved matters.

{{user}} wanted the window seat.

Rhys had wanted silence.She’d wanted music.

He’d wanted to read. She’d complained that he was boring.

He’d told her that she talked too much. {{user}} had stolen one of his headphones purely to annoy him.

By the time they finally arrived in Florence, they were still arguing.

“I told you we should have gotten off two stops ago.” He grumbles as he tackles both suitcases

“You’ve been looking at the map upside down.” He complains again when she decides she’s smart enough to play tour guide

Rhys reached over and rotated the map in her hand.

She stared at it.

Then at him.

⸻

After a hour of bickering and constant map snatching, The hotel was tucked away on a quiet Florentine street, its entrance framed by climbing ivy and warm golden lights.

{{user}} stepped inside first, immediately looking around. Rhys followed behind her, handing their passports to the receptionist.

The woman behind the desk smiled warmly.

“Welcome.”

“Hi,” He said, half exhausted. “We have a reservation.”

The receptionist typed something into the computer.

Then her smile widened.

“Ah, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Warren.”

{{user}} froze. Rhys froze. Slowly, they both looked at each other.

“...Mrs.?” He repeated.

The receptionist glanced between them.

“Yes. Your honeymoon suite.”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

{{user}} slowly turned toward Rhys.

His expression was unreadable.

“You booked the room, {{user}}” he said, “You booked a honeymoon suite.”

The receptionist looked slightly confused as they both set off into another spout of bickering.

Rhys turned to the receptionist, impatient. “Do you have another room?”

The woman typed again. “Unfortunately, we’re fully booked tonight.”

“No.” Rhys rubbed his temple, sighing deeply and muttering “Lord have mercy” under his breath.

⸻

The room was worse.

Or, depending on who you asked, considerably better.

The door opened into a gorgeous suite with exposed stone walls, tall windows overlooking Florence and a huge bed positioned directly in the centre of the room.

A bed that was very clearly designed for two people.

One bed covered in red rose petals.

{{user}} stopped in the doorway. Rhys stopped behind her. Neither spoke.

The truth came out on the most ordinary morning.

That was what made it worse.

There was no dramatic thunderstorm. No screaming match. No perfectly timed confession beneath the stars.

Just sunlight spilling through the tall windows of the Florence hotel room, turning the pale curtains gold.

{{user}} was sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, eating strawberries from room service while wearing one of Rhys’s shirts.

His shirt.

She’d stolen it sometime during the night because she’d complained that her own clothes were uncomfortable.

Rhys had said nothing.

He’d simply handed it to her.

Now she was wearing it with the sleeves rolled several times around her wrists, her hair messy from sleep, strawberries balanced between her fingers.

Rhys stood near the window, already dressed.

Suit. Watch. Hair neatly styled.

Everything about him looked controlled.

Except his expression.

Instead, he looked down at his hands.

“There’s something I need to tell you.” He starts slowly

Her expression changed immediately.

Rhys took a breath And suddenly, the room felt much smaller. He’d imagined this moment dozens of times.

In every version, he told her the truth calmly. She understood. Maybe she was angry. Maybe she forgave him. None of those fantasies survived the reality of looking at her. Because {{user}} trusted him. Completely.

She’d spent weeks talking to him as Warren. About fate. About the ridiculous little belief she’d carried with her for years that somewhere in the world was a man she was meant to find. And he’d let her believe it was him.

“I’m not Warren.” He finally says quietly, refusing to look at her

The strawberry slipped from her fingers. It landed on the plate.

She stared at him. For several seconds, she didn’t seem to understand.

Rhys swallowed, forcing himself to continue. “My name isn’t Warren. My name is Rhys. Rhys Donovan.”

{{user}}‘s face went completely blank.

“The truth is,” he said quietly, “I thought you were ridiculous.”

Her eyebrows pulled together.

“When you ran after me outside the hotel. When you told me you’d crossed countries looking for a man whose name you’d been given years ago. I thought you were impulsive.” Rhys continued. “But then you kept talking. And I started wanting to hear you talk.”

She said nothing.

“I should have told you that first night...but I couldn’t bring myself to,” His jaw tightened. “Because you looked at me like I’d just given you something you’d been waiting years to find. And I wanted to know what it felt like to be the person you were looking for.”

Rhys takes a step closer, hoping to ease her. “I know you think I played you or thought this was some game but it wasn’t like that at all, {{user}}. You were the woman who made me stay in Florence when I had a flight home.”

“The woman who made me cancel meetings.”

Another step.

“The woman who stole my jacket. The woman who complained about my driving. You were the first person in years who made me forget who I was supposed to be. And I fell in love with you.”

The airport was already boarding when {{user}} realized she couldn’t let him leave.

For the past two hours, she’d been sitting alone in the back of a car, staring through the window at Milan without really seeing it.

{{user}} had replayed the conversation over and over.

My name is Rhys.

Rhys Donovan.

I fell in love with you.

She had been furious. She still was. She should have stayed angry. It would have been easier.

Instead, she’d remembered everything. The rain. His jacket around her shoulders. The way he’d listened when she talked about her childhood. The way he’d carried her suitcase without complaining. The way he’d looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention. The way he’d said her name.

Not Warren’s soulmate. Not the actress. Just her. And suddenly the thought of never seeing him again had become unbearable.

{{user}} sat upright, giving a firm command to her driver to change route towards the Airport.

Her driver glanced at her through the mirror “Excuse me?”

{{user}} ignored him, not bothering to repeat herself and grabbed her phone.

There was one message from her assistant.

Rhys Donovan — private terminal. Flight departing in 35 minutes.

Her heart dropped before she specifies the airport: Linate.

⸻

Rhys had never been late for a flight in his life. He was early. Always.

His suitcase had already been loaded. His assistant was reviewing the final itinerary beside him, listing meetings in London, New York and Geneva.

Rhys listened without really hearing. He sat inside the plane with one hand in his trouser pocket, his expression unreadable.

Milan was behind him. The woman he’d fallen in love with was behind him. And he was leaving. He had told himself it was necessary. He had business to handle. Contracts to sign. Meetings he couldn’t postpone forever. But the truth was much simpler. He couldn’t stay in the same city knowing she didn’t want him there.

He’d already hurt {{user}}. Staying would only make it worse.

He took one final look towards the walkway, hoping maybe she had come to find him before he left.

Nothing.

No sign of her.

Of course there wasn’t.

He turned away and fixed his gaze to the window instead.

⸻

{{user}} ran through the airport. She didn’t care that her heels were slipping. Didn’t care that her hair had come loose. Didn’t care that people were staring or taking pictures that would probably be viral within the hour.

{{user}} had never run like this in her life.

Her assistant was shouting behind her. “Gate twelve! Hurry {{user}}, it’s the last call for boarding!”

{{user}} ran faster. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. She could see the plane through the glass.

The door was still open. People were still boarding.

Her stomach dropped and pushed through the rest of the boarding passengers

A security officer stepped in front of her. “Ma’am, you can’t—”

{{user}} flashes him one of her actress smiles, signs his uniform and ran past. She pushed past the stunned flight attendant and practically shoves through the walkway. Her eyes searched desperately.

Seat after seat.

Nothing.

The flight attendant blinked. “Who are you looking for ma’am?”

{{user}} pauses before giving his name

“He’s in the front cabin.” the attendant says

{{user}} ran again. She pushed through the plane. Past the empty seats. Past the bewildered passengers and Ignoring every stare.

Finally—she saw him.

Rhys was sat in one of the business class seats, with others around him pointing to the commotion that {{user}} was causing. He turned around, expression changed the second he saw her.

“What...Why did you come here?” He says, standing up

{{user}} swallowed. Because suddenly there were a thousand things she wanted to say and none of them seemed big enough.

...