Chapter 2
Cora
You all disappeared on me last night.
Saar
You seemed under the spell of Xander.
Don’t be ridiculous.
Lily
Sorry, but I’m sure you had fun.
You left like a ghost too.
Saar
I’m guessing we have my grumpy brother-in-law to thank for that.
Celeste
Lils, you didn’t have to leave with him, we would have given you a ride.
Saar
@Celeste, how is your dress?
Celeste
Ruined by breast milk (sad-face emoji)
How did I miss that?
Saar
Xander
Lily
Xander’s distraction.
Celeste
Xander’s allure.
I’m leaving this chat.
Why didn’t he kiss me?
What? Thank God he didn’t kiss me.
But it looked like he was going to. And apparently, I wanted him to. In that moment. Because I was under the spell of a great evening, some alcohol, and just the general charisma of Xander Stone.
He plays the game well, I’ll give him that. But I’m not a conquest. The man is hot as sin, but he is also spoiled, entitled, and ten years younger.
I enjoyed myself last night because I hadn’t been out for so long. And it didn’t hurt that my best friends, Saar, Lily, and Celeste, made sure that I was dressed and styled to the nines.
I felt like someone else. And that’s a dangerous, potentially addictive premise.
It was wonderful to escape my reality for a society event I would have never been invited to if it weren’t for my girlfriends.
And the escape involved a charming playboy who doesn’t even seem to speak my language. Because although we may both reside in the same country, we’re from such different worlds.
I check the clock beside my bed and immediately forget about the non-kiss, or my companion from yesterday.
The price of my last night’s escapism is steep. A light headache. Lack of sleep. And a stressful morning, rushing to the bistro.
Oh, how I hate my alarm. How I hate how exhausted I always feel, constantly playing catch-up. Never on top of work, orders, bills. The business that is in a dire state.
And I don’t seem to be able to find a way of pulling it out of that situation. I wish Dad could still work and expand his dream.
I wish I could just sleep for one day.
I wish I could just spend a day without responsibilities. Without the daunting task of managing a business and failing at it miserably.
I wonder if a man like Xander wishes for things like that. For a break. I doubt that. Also, I have no time to think about him.
He’s a fantasy. A prince who passed around on his white horse and took this damsel in distress to a ball. For fun. But that’s over now.
I push out of my bed, Pitt and Clooney groaning in protest. I allow myself a quick cuddle with my two cats. After all, they own the place, so the least I can do is give them a few moments of attention for letting me stay here. For filling all the voids in my life.
They don’t ask for much—just food, a clean litter box, and a place on my lap. And in return, they give me everything.
God, I’m becoming an old cat lady, but fuck it, these two… When the day has been heavy, their purrs smooth the edges, like they’re stitching me back together with sound.
They make me laugh, too, with their ridiculous zoomies, and the way they chase shadows like it’s the most important mission in the world.
They’ve taught me that love doesn’t always shout. Sometimes, it just sits beside you, warm and patient, until you can breathe again.
Occasionally, I wonder what my life would feel like without them. The apartment would be too quiet, too still.
Soft paws pad after me as I make my way to the bathroom. I take a shower and get dressed.
Finding a headband, I somehow tame my wild curls and make myself an extra-strong coffee. It should last me until I get to work and caffeinate some more.
When I arrive at the bistro—late due to yesterday’s indulgence—the place is buzzing with anxiety.
All the tables are full—which should make me happy, but I immediately sense the vibe is off. I practically grew up in this place, so I’m attuned to its energy, and today reeks of trouble, complaints, delays, and mixed-up orders.
I should never have gone to the gala.
My employee, Sanjay, looks at me with desperation as I make my way behind the counter. Steam rushes above the coffee machine. Wet footsteps lead to the kitchen, and something sticky is leaking down the counter.
“Can I get the bill finally?” a customer asks.
This is taking too long. Have they forgotten about my latte? This is not fresh.
The nervous whispers reach me as I try to decide how to help Sanjay without slowing him down.
What a fucking mess.
I should never have gone to the gala.
“Sanjay?” I look at his sweaty face while I get the bill for the impatient customer.
“The cook didn’t show up,” Sanjay says, dropping drink orders on his tray before he rushes to the floor.
I look around.
That’s all I do.
For days… or a few long seconds, I just stand there, paralyzed.
The tables are full, and yet it feels empty—of order, of calm, of anything resembling control. The hum of conversation feels like criticism. Every clink of cutlery is an accusation. A napkin falls to the floor, and no one picks it up.
I don’t move.
A woman taps the counter, waiting for a to-go order that clearly hasn’t even been started. Someone coughs. Someone complains. The espresso machine lets out a loud hiss.
Behind me, the door to the kitchen swings on its hinge, wide open to reveal… nothing. A few dirty pans. An empty prep station. Abandoned chaos.
No cook.
Sanjay rushes past me again with two drinks balanced on a tray and flour on his apron. “I’m sorry,” he says as he breezes past. “I tried calling him, but his voicemail says he’s out of town. Like literally says it, like it’s normal.”
I blink. “He left town?”
Sanjay twists back toward me. “I think he quit.”
“Did he say he was quitting?” I sound like an idiot, as if clarity on the whereabouts and plans of my MIA cook is what can save the current situation.
“He posted an Instagram story with a cocktail on a beach and the caption, ‘finally free.’ I’m reading between the lines here.”
Jesus.
Coffee overflows behind me and scalds my hand as I reach for it. Fuck. I grab a rag, clean the cup up, and push it across the counter to the wrong customer, who glares at it like I just served them poison.
I inhale slowly.
Then I walk into the back, find my apron, and start making wraps and sandwiches.
Tomato, lettuce, smear of pesto. Next.
Hummus, cucumber, alfalfa sprouts. Next.
I don’t taste; I don’t feel; I just move. Because that’s what I do. I keep the ship from sinking. Even if I’m bailing water with my bare hands.
“Sanjay,” I call out through the open door. “Stop seating new tables for now. We’re in triage mode.”
“You got it, boss.”
The bread is stale.
We’re out of turkey.
We’re down to two avocados, and one of them is already halfway to brown sludge. But I keep going.
I make four sandwiches in a row before realizing I haven’t buttered a single slice of bread. Doesn’t matter. Just keep going.
The kitchen smells like wilted greens and burned coffee. My headband is slipping. A drop of sweat slides down the back of my neck. I scrape together something that passes for a caprese wrap.
Sanjay lets out a grateful sigh as he whisks them away.
I grab another tomato and slice it with a little more force than necessary.
I should never have gone to the gala.
Not because I regret the dress. Or the dancing. Or the way Xander looked at me, like I was a puzzle he was desperate to solve.
But because of how easy it had been to forget this.
This chaos. This grind.
This version of myself who lives in reaction mode. Who wakes up already behind, and goes to sleep never quite caught up.
For one night, I pretended I belonged somewhere else.
And this morning, reality welcomed me back with the sharpest claws.
My headache progresses with every slice of the knife. With every completed order. With every chime of the register.
But the work gets done, and the momentary satisfaction seeps through as the day comes to an end.
“Let’s close early,” I tell Sanjay, an hour before our usual closing time, while I rub a sticky spot on the espresso machine.
I busy myself tidying behind the counter when I finally hear the lock. I almost weep with relief.
Sighing, I lower my head. We did it, just barely surviving, but I kept this place afloat for another day.
“This was delivered as I was locking up. The delivery guy said it’s for you.” Sanjay approaches me holding a white paper box.
I take it slowly. The logo on the napkin tucked under the string says it all. My favorite 24-hour bakery. My stomach tightens before I even open the lid.
Inside, nestled like a little crown jewel, is a pistachio Danish.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
I stare at the pastry. It’s not just the gesture. He teased me about it. Looked down at the place, the amount of sugar poison.
And yet he got me the exact one I raved about in the early morning hours.
And for a moment—just one—I imagine what it would be like to curl up on the worn sofa, eat it with my fingers, and let the sweetness push the bitterness of the day away.
But the bitterness lingers. I also imagine him spending the day in the boardroom, in his tailored suit, probably making ten times more in an hour than I did today.
What do you want from me, Xander Stone? Why do you bother with someone like me?
I glance around.
The tables are empty now, but there’s a stain on the floor no one’s mopped. A leaky pipe in the kitchen. A list of unpaid invoices on the counter. A dozen voicemails from suppliers.
This is not a world where pastries solve problems.
This is not a life where I can afford to be charmed by a billionaire who plays games. I don’t have time or energy for games.
I close the box gently and hand it back to Sanjay. “Take it home.”
He blinks. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “I’ve had enough sugar for a week.”
He smiles. “Thanks, boss.”
I manage a smile too. “Go home. I’ll finish here.”
“For real?” He frowns, but his entire body pivots toward the exit.
“Of course. You were here in the morning. It’s my turn. Besides, I still have paperwork to catch up on.” Or cry over. Which I definitely don’t need him to see.
He leaves.
And I stay.
Sweeping up crumbs that never seem to disappear—so different from last night.
I should never have gone to that gala.