Chapter 6
Elodie
Dorian Vale.
He’s there.
I see him before my brain has time to lie to me.
One second, I’m wiping down the rail, lost in the mindless rhythm of work, and the next, I feel the prickling sensation of being watched.
After the horrific night I had with Marcus’ henchmen, my mind is a haunted house and everything is a threat.
When I look up, I never expect to see Dorian sitting at one of the corner tables, laptop open, his dark gaze locked firmly on me.
For a heartbeat, I can only stare.
This is the second time I’ve seen him in one week, yet I hadn’t seen him in seven years, and I’ve worked here for the last two months.
Like the other day, he’s all sharp lines and shadow. A man who looks like some god of the underworld who’s wandered up to the surface and decided to stay.
Hades in a Manhattan coffeehouse.
His midnight-black Brioni suit clings to him like it was sewn onto his body, the open collar of his white shirt revealing a slice of throat that shouldn’t be distracting yet somehow is.
A Patek Philippe gleams at his wrist, and his sleek Tom Ford brogues are polished within an inch of their lives. The low, tired lighting of the coffeehouse catches on him like a spotlight, carving his features into something almost inhuman.
I suppose that’s fitting. Men like Dorian Vale—billionaires—don’t really belong to the same world as the rest of us. They move through it, untouchable, like they’re made of something sharper and colder than human.
My hand tightens around the dust cloth until my knuckles ache.
Of all the nights for him to show up.
Of all the versions of me he could have seen, it has to be this one. The exhausted, hollow-eyed Elodie who’s been fearing for her life.
I’m caught between the urge to bolt and the sick, treacherous flutter low in my stomach. Because no matter how much I’m supposed to hate him, part of me doesn’t.
Part of me is still enchanted with him, even though I know better.
What’s that saying?
Those who know better should do better.
It’s funny how they never do.
“Come here.” His deep voice is low and unhurried. Demanding but with a slow, lulling cadence like a lullaby gone wrong. Those two words drag over my skin, making my body want to obey before my brain can object.
I should pretend I didn’t hear him. Pretend I’m just another exhausted barista closing up for the night and he’s just another customer.
But I’ve never been good at pretending when it comes to Dorian Vale.
My feet move before my pride can catch up. One step. Then another. Each one feels like I’m crossing some invisible line I swore I’d never go near again.
I stop beside his table, careful to keep just enough distance between us that I can still breathe.
“What can I get you?” I ask. My voice comes out softer than I’d like, frayed at the edges.
When he searches my eyes, it feels less like he’s looking at me and more like he’s peeling me open, layer by layer.
The corner of his mouth lifts into not quite a smile but something more like he’s amused by something he’s not going to share.
“Sit,” he says after a long moment.
I stare back, my eyes wide and unblinking. “You want me to sit? With you?”
“Yeah, sit.” He points to the chair opposite him.
“I can’t. I’m not allowed to sit and fraternize with customers.”
“They’ll make an exception for me.” His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. “Especially since I’m not just a customer to you, am I?”
My stomach knots. Sitting with him is a bad idea for all sorts of reasons. But what am I going to do? Argue?
With my gaze still trained on him, I walk around to the chair and lower myself into it. My body thanks me for the moment of reprieve.
I’ve been going nonstop since last night. I came straight back here after the encounter with Marcus’ men. I worked through the night, too terrified to go home. Then I went from here to school as per usual and came straight back. I plan to do the same thing tonight.
Dorian and I stare at each other. I look him over. Everything on him screams money. The watch on his wrist alone could cover the arrears on my loan easily and then some.
How can I know a man who’s a billionaire and comes from a company that makes multi-billions, and I had thugs inside my apartment, holding me at knifepoint, demanding the money I owe?
The crazy thing is, Dorian should be a person I could ask for help, but he made it clear years ago he wasn’t going to be a savior for anyone with the last name Harper.
“So… why am I sitting here?” I ask, bringing my hands together.
“So we can talk.”
“Talk? Talk about what?” I swallow past the lump in my throat and try to look like all is well with me.
His gaze drifts over me again. “About why you look like hell.”
Heat pricks the back of my neck. “Thanks. That’s exactly what every woman wants to hear.”
“Relax, I’m just curious, little lamb.”
Little lamb.
The old nickname slams into me like a slap made of memories.
I haven’t been called that name in years, and somehow, it still finds the softest parts of me. I earned it because I used to follow him and Jack around like they hung the moon—or rather him.
“I’m just tired.” I force a smile.
“Then let’s start with some coffee.”
“I can get you coffee.” No matter what he said, if Beth sees me sitting here, she’ll have my head.
“No. Stay. She can do it.” His gaze shifts over my shoulder, and he raises a hand.
I turn to look, and my heart stops when I see Beth making her way over to us. The heavy scowl on her face suggests she was already coming to chew me out.
Shit. She’s already upset with me. This will make it worse.
The glare she throws my way when she reaches the table could incinerate. But she’s cool as a cucumber when she switches her gaze to Dorian.
“How can I help you, Mr. Vale?” she gushes.
"Can I get two coffees? Black for me, and a latte with almond milk for her."
Oh my God, he’s ordering for me. And he remembered I like almond milk. I’m not lactose intolerant; I just like the taste.
Beth and I both stare back at him, stunned. Except she looks royally pissed.
“With all due respect, Mr. Vale, my barista is still on her shift and should be working.” Beth pushes her shoulders back, happy to inform him that she practically owns me. “She will be happy to get you—”
Dorian holds up a hand, cutting her off. “No.”
“No?” Beth blinks.
He gives her a toothy shark smile. “No. Elodie is going to sit with me for a while. While she’s here, you will serve us. And you’ll do so with a smile on your face. Now, shall we start over?”
Oh my God. Did he seriously just say that?
Beth goes pale but pastes back on her fake smile. “Of course,” she says tightly. Her eyes cut to me, a warning buried in the sweetness. “Two coffees. Right away.”
She turns on her heel and stalks off toward the counter, spine ramrod straight, every line of her body screaming how much she hates this.
I sit there, dumbfounded, my pulse fluttering in my throat.
Dorian Vale just ordered my boss to wait on me.
For one surreal, stolen moment, it feels like he dragged me out of the line of fire and stepped into it himself for me.
It shouldn’t feel like a victory. But watching Beth march off to get me coffee is something I’ll never forget.
I look back at Dorian and find he’s already staring at me.
“She is going to skin me alive.” My fingers knot together in my lap, nails biting into my palms as if I can hold myself in place long enough to survive Beth’s impending wrath.
A cocky grin dances over his full, firm lips. “If she wants to keep her job, she won’t.”
Wow. Such is the power of Dorian Vale. I guess if he wanted to, he could have Beth fired and replaced before morning.
She doesn’t keep us waiting. Not even a minute passes before she returns with our coffee.
She smiles at Dorian as she places his cup before him, but she doesn’t even acknowledge me.
“Is there anything else I can get you, Mr. Vale?” she asks in that sickly sweet voice.
“I’ll let you know.”
She dips her head then cuts me a scathing glance before sauntering away.
This time, Dorian spares her a glance. When he looks back at me, he motions to my coffee cup. “Drink.”
“Thank you.” I take a sip, and it tastes amazing.
What would he say if he knew I haven’t even been able to afford a cup of coffee?
Since my car broke down, I’ve had to ration food, and that’s likely to continue.
Of course, that’s if I’m still alive after next week.
I push the sordid thought away, but it’s very much a possibility since I have no idea how I’m going to get Marcus’ money. So far, my only option is to run.
But I can’t even do that without money. That’s why I’m still around.
Dorian lifts his own cup, fingers wrapping around the porcelain like it’s an extension of his hand.
He takes a slow, unhurried sip. Obscene in its simplicity—his mouth on the rim, his throat working as he swallows, the smallest flex of tendons at his wrist catching the light off his watch—but heat crawls up my neck.
There is absolutely nothing sexual about watching a man drink coffee, but tell that to the part of me that tracks every shift of his mouth like I’m starving and he’s the sin I promised myself I’d never touch again.
Dorian sets the mug down and gives me a cutting stare that pierces through me. “What are you doing working here?”
I blink at him, buying myself a second. “Working,” I say, because it’s the safest answer and the only one that doesn’t involve the words loan shark, deadline, or I might die on Monday.
One of his brows lifts, the faintest arch of disbelief. His eyes narrow, not in anger but in that precise, dissecting way he has. The dark in his gaze sharpens with cool intent, and for a heartbeat, I feel like I’m under a microscope.
“Cute,” he murmurs, the word almost a sigh. Something flints behind his eyes. I can’t tell if it’s annoyance, concern, or calculation. “Try again. What are you doing working here? What happened to teaching?”