Love Me Again: Chapter One - The Wrong Ride

A rain-soaked night in Manhattan, a broken phone, and a desperate need to get home. Charlie thought she was hopping into a quiet Uber to escape the gala—instead, she dove straight into the lion's den. Killian "Lady Killer" Saint hasn't seen her in three years, and he has no intention of letting her go a second time.

Chapter One

The Wrong Ride

Charlie

The rain is absolutely relentless, the kind of torrential downpour that makes New York feel like it’s being scrubbed raw. I’m standing on the curb outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, shivering in a silk slip dress that cost more than my first car and heels that were clearly designed by a man who has never had to walk a single city block. My phone screen is a spiderweb of cracks, the backlight flickering ominously as I try to track the little car icon on the map.

One minute away.

The humidity has already won the battle against my hair, turning my carefully styled waves into a frizzled halo of frustration. I shift my weight, and a fresh wave of pain shoots through my arches. I swear, if this car doesn't show up in the next sixty seconds, I’m just going to lay down on the sidewalk and let the gutter take me.

When the sleek, black SUV pulls up to the curb, I don't even wait for it to come to a full stop. I don’t check the license plate. I don't look at the driver’s name. I just yank the door open and dive into the back, bringing a cloud of wet New York air and my dripping umbrella with me.

"Finally," I huff, slamming the door shut. The silence of the cabin is immediate, cutting off the roar of the city and the rhythmic thunk-thunk of the rain against the pavement. "I thought I was going to grow fins out there. Please tell me the heater works. I’m freezing, and I’m pretty sure I have permanent nerve damage in my feet."

The driver doesn't answer. He doesn't even acknowledge me with a grunt. He just pulls away from the curb with a sudden, aggressive lurch that sends my evening bag sliding off my lap and onto the floor mats.

"Whoa, easy on the gas, buddy," I mutter, reaching down to grope for my clutch in the dark. "I’m not in that much of a hurry to get back to my apartment. It’s not like the mice are throwing me a welcome-home party."

"I don't think you're going to your apartment, sweetheart."

That voice.

It’s lower than I remember, rougher, like it’s been dragged over gravel and dipped in expensive, single-malt scotch. It sends a violent shiver down my spine that has absolutely nothing to do with the damp silk clinging to my skin. It’s a voice that belongs in a stadium, projected to fifty thousand screaming fans, yet here it is, vibrating through the leather of the seat right next to me.

I freeze, my hand still hovering inches above the floor mat, and slowly—painfully slowly—turn my head toward the shadows of the far seat.

Killian "Lady Killer" Saint is slumped in the corner, looking like the king of a very dark, very expensive mountain. He’s wearing a black leather jacket over a white button-down that is open halfway to his waist, revealing the intricate black ink that crawls up his throat like ivy. His black hair is a mess, a few damp strands sticking to a forehead that has graced a thousand magazine covers.

His silver eyes—the ones that used to look at me with such soft, private adoration before the world decided he was its favorite bad boy—are now narrowed and dangerously sharp.

"Killian?" I whisper, the name feeling like a jagged piece of glass in my throat.

"In the flesh." He leans forward, the light of a passing streetlamp illuminating the wicked, predatory smirk on his face. "Though usually, people have to pay a lot more than an Uber fare to get this close to me these days."

My heart is thundering against my ribs so hard I’m convinced it’s going to bruise. I scramble back against the door, my hand fumbling for the handle. "I... I’m in the wrong car. You need to pull over. Right now. I’ll just jump out at the light."

"Can't do that, Charlie," he says, and I hear the unmistakable, heavy clink of metal. He lifts his left hand, and my jaw drops.

He’s handcuffed to the grab handle above the door.

I stare at the shackle, then at his face, then at the driver—a massive man with a buzz cut and a neck the size of my torso who hasn't looked back once. "What is this? Are you being arrested? Am I being kidnapped by the LAPD’s most wanted?"

Killian lets out a dark, dry chuckle that doesn't hold a hint of real humor. "Security’s idea of 'protective custody.' I may have had a slight disagreement with a photographer at the afterparty, and my manager decided I was a flight risk. Apparently, they think shackling me to the car is the only way to ensure I actually make it back to the penthouse."

He shifts, the leather of his jacket creaking, and his gaze rakes over me. It’s slow, deliberate, and entirely too thorough. He lingers on the way the damp silk of my dress is hugging my curves, and my skin hitches under the heat of his attention.

"But I have to say," he continues, his voice dropping into that low, vibrato range that used to make me melt into a puddle, "this is the first time they’ve provided a welcome-home gift for the ride. Did you miss me that much, Charlie? Couldn't wait for the reunion tour?"

"I am not a gift," I snap, my shock finally giving way to a familiar, simmering indignation. "And I certainly didn't come here to see you. I’m not that eighteen-year-old girl who followed you into a green room because I liked the way you played the guitar, Killian. I’m twenty-four now—I’ve grown up. You should try it sometime. I was at a charity gala for the library. Unlike you, some of us still care about things that don't involve leather pants and pyrotechnics."

Killian’s grip on my wrist doesn't loosen; if anything, it tightens, dragging me an inch closer until I can feel the heat radiating off his thighs. The leather of his jacket creaks as he shifts, and the silver light from a streetlamp catches the sharp, hungry lines of his face.

"Twenty-four," he muses, the number sounding like a low vibration in the quiet car. "You think six years changed the way you look at me? You’re still just a girl playing at being an adult, Charlie. And I’m still a thirty-five-year-old man who knows exactly how much trouble you can handle."

"You're a prick, Saint."

"I’m a man who’s spent a decade getting everything he wants," he growls, his mouth inches from mine. "And right now, I’m too old to care about being nice, and I’ve got too many miles on me to let you walk away twice. 

"The library," he drawls, the smirk widening. "Still the same little bookworm. Still hiding behind big words and expensive dresses."

"And you're still the same arrogant asshole," I counter, lunging for the door handle again and yanking it with all my might. It doesn't budge. The child locks are on. "Let me out of this car, Killian. I mean it. This is false imprisonment."

Killian’s free hand moves like lightning. Before I can even think about screaming, he reaches across the seat, grabs my wrist, and yanks me toward him. I stumble, my knees hitting the floor of the SUV before I’m hauled upward, landing hard against his side. The scent of him—sandalwood, rain, and the faint, metallic tang of trouble—fills my lungs, making my head spin.

"Sit down, Charlie," he growls, his face so close to mine that I can see the silver flecks in his irises. "You hopped into a private vehicle without looking. That makes you a trespasser. And since I’m currently stuck in these damn things..." He rattles the handcuffs against the handle for emphasis, the metal clanging loudly in the quiet car. "I think I’ll keep you exactly where you are until we get to my penthouse.  I’ve had a hell of a night, and you’re the first interesting thing that’s happened to me in three years."

"You can't be serious," I breathe, my heart racing for an entirely different reason now. "You're going to force me to go to your penthouse?"

"I’m not forcing you to do anything," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the pulse point on my wrist. It’s erratic, betraying every ounce of my composure. "The doors are locked, the driver follows my orders, and you’re already here. Why fight the inevitable?"

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of my ear, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. "Besides, we have a lot to catch up on. I want to hear all about the library. And I want to know if you still make that little sound in the back of your throat when I touch you just right."

"Killian Saint," I gasp, trying to push against his chest, but his arm is like a band of iron around my waist. "You have a very dirty mouth."

"You have no idea, Charlie," he whispers, his grip tightening. "But give it twenty minutes. You’re about to find out exactly how much I’ve learned since you left."

The SUV swerves around a corner, throwing me even deeper into his lap. I look up at him, my breath coming in short, shallow hitches. The city lights flicker across his face, making him look like a beautiful, dangerous ghost. I should be terrified. I should be screaming for the driver to stop.

But as Killian looks down at me, his eyes dark with a hunger that makes my blood run hot, I realize the most terrifying thing of all: part of me doesn't want to leave this car at all.

"Twenty minutes," he says, his voice a promise and a threat all rolled into one. "And then, sweetheart, we’re going to see if that 'Lady Killer' nickname is actually earned."

The car speeds through the rainy streets of Manhattan, heading toward the towering glass spires of the Upper West Side. I’m trapped, I’m soaking wet, and I’m handcuffed—metaphorically, for now—to the man who broke my heart and became a god.

And as we pull into the private underground garage of his building, I realize that the "Wrong Uber" was the most dangerous turn my life has ever taken.

Come back tomorrow for another chapter

Trope Talk: The "Wrong Uber" Mishap 

The Trope: Accidentally Entering the Lion’s Den / High-Stakes Proximity. 

The Thought: I love that this isn't just a simple mistake; it’s a collision of two completely different worlds. Charlie thinks she’s escaping the rain, but she’s actually diving straight back into the fire she spent three years trying to put out. Killian is literally "chained" to his past (and the car), and seeing her again instantly flips his "Lady Killer" switch. It’s that perfect "lightning strike" moment where the universe decides these two aren't done yet. 

The Question: Do you prefer a "meet-cute" that’s sweet and accidental, or a high-tension "meet-again" like this where the history is already simmering?

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: March 2026

Cover Design by LS Phoenix