His Shadow, Her Leash

Chapter 1

Central Park had the smell of wet earth, roasted chestnuts from the vendor carts, and the crisp green smell that only occurred after the rain the night before. Elena Harper stepped out from the path near the Literary Walk at 8:47 a.m., and she was already smiling because the dogs would be waiting.

She was twenty-eight years old, five feet five on a good day, with hazel eyes that picked up light like river rocks and chestnut hair pulled up into a messy bun that never seemed to stay neat for very long. Today, a few strands had escaped to frame the nape of her neck from the humidity. Faded blue jeans, grass-stained white sneakers, a soft charcoal hoodie pulled up to the mid-point, and the bright teal backpack slung over one shoulder – that was Elena’s uniform. Practical, unpretentious, and uniquely hers.

Max, the golden retriever, was the first to see her and took off like a shot, his tail spinning like a helicopter rotor. Luna, the shih tzu, sat primly beside the owner’s legs, the pink bow slightly askew. Then there were the new dogs, Bella and Beau, the two Afghan hounds belonging to Mrs. Victoria Blackwood.

Elena stands up and drops straight down to their level. “Morning, your highnesses,” she says softly, letting them sniff at her hand. Bella licks at it delicately. Beau just looks at Elena like he’s trying to figure out if she’s worth his time, and finally allows her to attach the leash.

“Mrs. Blackwood said you guys are picky,” she says as she stands up. “Good thing I have no shame and the good treats are on hand.”

She sets off down the reservoir path. Max bounds ahead as usual. Luna walks right along beside her, glued to Elena’s ankle. Bella and Beau stroll along beside her, their heads held high, their coats catching the sunlight. Elena has an earplug in, but it’s not playing much. It’s just enough to pick up the guy playing guitar near Bethesda Fountain, and the kid shrieking with joy at the pigeons.

This part of the day is hers. No emails. No crap. Just the thud of the dogs’ paws on the gravel, the warmth of the leashes in her hand, the way each dog looks back at her like she’s the only world that exists. She’s been doing this full-time for four years now – since she realized she could pay rent in Brooklyn, eat whatever she could scrounge up cheaply, and still have room to breathe. It’s not glamorous. It’s not forever. But it feels right.

Halfway around the course, she lets them loose in the big fenced run. Max runs after a dead tennis ball. Luna sniffs at one clover patch as if it were hiding treasure. Bella and Beau just stand there together, noses up, as if posing for a painting.

Elena flops down on the grass, legs out. Pulls out her little notebook. Starts doodling the pet daycare she’s been dreaming about since she was sixteen. Big windows. Soft music. Smells like vanilla instead of pee. She scribbles underneath: yard big enough for zoomies. no yelling. dogs get to choose their friends.

A shadow falls across the page.

She looks up.

Guy at the fence. Tall—six-three easy—shoulders that make the charcoal overcoat look custom even though it probably is. Dark hair swept back neat but not too perfect, like he runs his hand through it when he’s thinking. Jawline that could hurt someone. Eyes blue like the kind of cold ocean that looks calm until you’re in it.

He’s not on his phone. Not checking his watch. He’s looking at Bella and Beau.

Then he’s looking at her.

“Those are my mother’s,” he says. Voice low, smooth, carries without shouting.

Elena stands, brushes grass off her thighs. “You’re Damian Blackwood.”

One corner of his mouth twitches up. Barely a smile. More like, yeah, that’s me. “She talks about me.”

“She talks about everybody. Mostly the dogs though.” Elena nods at Bella, who’s already leaning her whole elegant body against his leg like she owns him. “They’re having the best morning. Beau chased a butterfly for like three seconds before he remembered he’s too fancy for that.”

Damian’s eyes go to the dog, then snap right back to her. There’s something in his expression, small and quick, like a camera finally focusing.

“You’re Elena.”

She blinks. “She talks about me too?”

“Said the new walker was unusually good with them.” He pauses like he’s choosing the next word carefully. “She said ‘magic’.”

Elena laughs—softly, a little embarrassed. “I just tell them they’re the prettiest dogs in New York and sneak them liver treats when no one’s looking. It’s not magic. It’s bribery.”

He doesn’t laugh back, but that corner of his mouth lifts again. Higher this time. “It works.”

Quiet for a second. Just park noise—kids yelling, leaves rustling, some dog barking in the distance. Elena feels her pulse in her throat. Sees how still he stands. Like he could wait forever if he wanted to.

“I should get them back,” she says, re-clipping leashes. “Mrs. Blackwood wants them home before tea.”

He moves aside to let her through the gate. Their arms brush—just the sleeves. Coat against hoodie. Little spark.

Then he’s walking beside her. No asking. Just does it. “I’m going that way anyway,” he says, like it’s obvious.

Elena looks up at him. “To walk two Afghan hounds in a five-thousand-dollar coat?”

“Six,” he corrects, deadpan. “And I’ve ruined more expensive things for less interesting reasons.”

She snorts before she can help it.

He looks down at her, really looks, and for a moment, there’s something behind those blue eyes. Not obvious. Just there. Like the first crack in ice.

But what he says is, “Tell me about the butterfly again.”

So she does. The whole dumb three-second chase. Bella’s haughty side-eye. The way the sun hit their coats. And Damian Blackwood listens like he’s got nowhere else to be.

When they get to the brownstone on East 74th, the sun’s higher and Elena’s face is warm and she’s not sure if it’s just from the sun.

He stops at the bottom of the steps, and she climbs up to the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he says.

Doesn’t sound like he’s asking.

Elena turns, keys already in hand. “Same time. Unless your mom fires me by then.”

“She won’t.” The word is flat. Certain.

Elena raises an eyebrow. “You sound awfully sure.”

“I am.”

He looks at her for a fraction of a second longer than he should. The air feels heavy between them. Then he turns and walks away. His coat flails behind him like a shadow coming undone.

Elena watches him until he disappears around the corner.

Something in her chest flutters. Small. Vibrant. Ridiculous.

She tries to tell herself it means nothing.

Deep down, she already knows better.

Chapter 2

Damian was born into old money in Manhattan—Blackwood Enterprises was a giant in the tech and real estate industries before he was even a twinkle in his father’s eye. His father, Victor Blackwood, was the quintessential hard-nosed patriarch: charming in the boardroom, icy in the home. Victor viewed his son as a continuation of the family business, not as a child. From the time Damian could walk, it was a curriculum in mastering the art of domination—chess at age four, books on corporate strategy by age eight, no place for "weak" emotions such as fear and sadness. "Control is power," Victor would tell him. "Everything else is a liability."

His mother, Victoria, was the complete opposite—warm, creative, the type of woman who took in stray dogs and gave second chances. She adored Damian, sneaking him extra hugs whenever Victor wasn’t around, reading him stories about knights and dragons instead of balance sheets. She was the only soft spot in the entire hou