14.
The café had grown busy.
The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, and people flooded back in with scarves and stories, seeking comfort in warm pastries and stronger coffee.
The faint hum of conversation mingled with the hiss of the espresso machine and the soft clatter of cups.
Isolde moved behind the counter like a shadow in bloom quiet, composed, her every movement precise.
Her long, ink-dark hair was braided loosely over one shoulder.
She wore a navy blouse with pearl buttons and a black skirt, modest but elegant, soft against her waist as she turned to serve another latte.
That's when the bell above the door chimed again.
She looked up.
Him.
Lucien Leclerc. A regular.
Young maybe twenty-one.
Tall, lean, the type of boy who dressed without effort. Today he wore a rust-colored hoodie and charcoal jeans.
Tousled dark-blond hair framed his forehead. His eyes hazel, curious, wide searched for her the moment he stepped in.
When he saw her, he smiled.
Isolde gave him the faintest smile back.
"Hey," he said, stepping up to the counter. "You've been gone."
She blinked, keeping her tone light. "I was... unwell. Just stayed home."
Her lie tasted stale in her mouth, but it was clean enough. Easy to digest.
Lucien frowned, concern softening his boyish features. "Sorry to hear that. You okay now?"
She nodded quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Getting there."
"You're... you look pale," he said. "Tired."
"I haven't slept much." Another truth, more dangerous than the lie.
He glanced down at the display, then back up at her. "I'll take the cinnamon snake pastry and a café au lait."
She keyed it in. "Coming right up."
Lucien hesitated. Then, as she slid his order into the register.
He nodded at her neck, where the velvet choker hid bruises. "That's new. Suit you."
She flinched, turning to steam milk. "Thanks."
He asked, "Hey, um... would you come to the park with me after your shift? Just to walk. Get some air. Talk."
Isolde stilled. The milk frother hissed. Isolde stared at the swirling foam.
Her pulse skipped.
The park. With him.
He wasn't threatening. He wasn't cruel. He was kind, gentle-eyed, warm.
But the part of her that once could say yes to normal things that part had been bruised until it cowered.
Still, she didn't want to be rude.
Didn't want to seem afraid.
So she forced a breath and gave him a soft nod. "My shift ends in an hour."
He smiled again brighter this time. "Cool. I'll wait."
Lucien waited at a corner table near the window, his coffee in hand, watching the rain collect on the glass.
He was patient.
Occasionally, he glanced up to watch Isolde work. The way she moved with grace and focus. The way she laughed soft, breathy when Mira made a dry joke.
She was different now.
Quieter. Distant.
But still radiant in that way that made people look twice.
When her shift ended, she disappeared to the back.
Minutes later, she reappeared with her bag, hair rebraided, cheeks slightly pink from the cold air that had snuck in through the open door.
Lucien stood, offering his jacket. "Chilly out."
She declined, but he draped it over her shoulders anyway.
Sandalwood and mint enveloped her, so different from Dante's bourbon-and-blood scent.
She hesitated again, her hand lingering on the café door handle.
Then she nodded once.
The park was damp, the grass glistening, the stone benches slick with rain.
They walked side by side down a gravel path littered with fallen leaves, the trees overhead shifting in the breeze.
The air smelled of wet earth and woodsmoke from a nearby chimney.
Lucien stuffed his hands into his hoodie pockets. He walked a little closer to her than necessary, but not so close that she flinched.
"You don't talk much anymore," he said gently.
"I have a lot on my mind."
"Want to talk about it?"
She shook her head. "It's not something I can say out loud. Not yet."
He nodded. Didn't push.
Then "I've always liked talking to you. Even when you weren't saying much."
"So," he said, raking a hand through his hair. "I, uh... I suck at this."
Isolde folded her hands in her chest nails bitten raw. "At what?"
"Telling you I've had a crush on you since you messed up my order six months ago."
He laughed, nervous. "You gave me chamomile instead of espresso. Said I looked like I needed 'calming.'"
She blinked. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything about you." His voice softened. "How you bite your lip when you're nervous. How you always donate your tips to the stray cat fund. How you... glow, even when you're sad."
She blinked, heart suddenly in her throat.
He smiled softly. "I don't know you fully. But I'd like to."
She stopped walking.
He turned to face her.
Tension rippled in the quiet between them.
"I like you, Isolde," he said simply. "I don't know what's happening in your life. But I see you. I see you."
She stared down at her hands. Twisting her fingers together.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Lucien stepped closer. "Don't be."
"I can't be what you want. Not right now. I'm not... okay."
"You don't have to be okay. We can just-"
"No." Her voice was soft, but firm. "You should stay away from me."
His brows furrowed, wounded but confused. "Why?"
"Because people around me get hurt."
"Is that a warning or a curse?"
"Both," she whispered.
He caught her wrist, gentle but firm. "Isolde, talk to me. Let me hel-"
"Don't!" She jerked free, tears spilling. "You don't know what you're asking!"
Silence. A leaf drifted between them.
He stared at her.
Then sighed. "Okay."
He stepped back.
She returned his jacket then turned and began to walk.
And he didn't follow.
But Dante already knew.
He had been informed of the entire conversation from his private Spy who has been following their every move and conversation.
And now, in the velvet-draped parlor of his penthouse, he stood slowly from his chair, rage and amusement tangled in his expression like barbed roses.
He licked his lips once.
Smiled.
Then whispered to himself "So the boy wants to date her. Let me show him what it costs to covet what belongs to me."
Isolde walked home. Not the shelter.
Not the safe house.
She walked past the police checkpoints, past the streets that should've made her feel protected.
Until she reached the one place she wasn't supposed to return to.
Her aunt's apartment.
Still sealed by police tape.
But the door was unlocked.
She stepped inside.
The lights didn't work.
But the silence welcomed her like an old friend.
And in that silence...
She finally cried.