Chapter 1 #2
My honey curls are pulled back, yet a few strands have already escaped, softening the severity I keep trying to maintain. Taupe eyes stare back at me, too awake for this hour, too alert, like I’m bracing for impact instead of coffee.
Freckles scatter across my cheeks, stubborn as ever. Proof that no matter how polished I make myself, some parts of me refuse to be erased. I look capable. Composed. The kind of woman people trust to keep things moving, to hold everything together without complaint.
They never see the effort it takes.
I reach for the handle and push the two-way door open. The bell above it chimes loudly, bright and cheerful and entirely oblivious to my mood.
I step inside and slow almost immediately. There’s a queue.
That alone is strange. The shop is small, yes, but it’s efficient. It’s a place where baristas move like choreography, where orders slide out before you finish thinking them. People don’t linger here. They don’t stack up.
But today, they are.
Coats brush against coats. Phones are checked. Someone sighs behind me. The air is thick with impatience, and it doesn’t take long to figure out why.
The coffee machine is broken.
I step closer to the counter, my heels clicking softly against the polished hardwood floor.
The owner, a man in his sixties, bends over the espresso machine, muttering under his breath.
His glasses slide down the bridge of his nose every time he leans forward.
White hair flecked with gray, skin lined by decades of sun and coffee steam.
He’s doing everything he can, but the machine refuses to cooperate.
“Will it…take long?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm.
“Not at all, miss,” he answers almost immediately, but the slight frown betrays him.
I’m about to ask how long not at all actually means when my phone vibrates in my hand.
I glance down, already annoyed, a scowl forming out of habit, until I see Lisa’s name. It melts immediately.
Who else would it be?
It’s not like I have an active love life.
I don’t even have a passive one. Romance requires energy.
Desire requires space. I have neither. I tried, once, early on, a few weeks after I started working for Ares Greco.
I went on a half-hearted date, forced a few laughs over drinks I barely tasted.
But it didn’t see the light of the next day.
Nothing ever does when your entire nervous system is calibrated around someone else’s schedule.
Somehow, Ares drained that part of me without ever touching it.
Ironically, his own sex life is thriving. I know because I’m the one who tracks it discreetly, professionally, against my will.
I book the dinners, adjust the schedules, and move meetings when his nights run long. I make sure names don’t overlap and mornings don’t clash. I know which “client dinners” aren’t actually about business and which penthouse mornings require aspirin and extra time.
It’s my job.
I hate that it is.
“Hey,” I answer, pressing the phone to my ear as the Owner continues wrestling with the machine behind the counter.
“You forgot your neck pillow on the kitchen counter.” Lisa doesn’t bother with pleasantries. She never does.
I close my eyes. Shit, I did.
“Shit.” I inhale deeply. “Ares Greco will be the death of me.” I exhale a short laugh, more bitter than amused.
“Lily.” Her tone softens. “You’re going to break down.”
“On today’s episode of my boss doesn’t give a fuck.” I run a hand through my hair, trying not to let my frustration spill.
“Have you said anything to him?” Lisa pokes, already knowing I didn’t and won’t ever be doing that.
“No,” I admit. “ What do you want me to say to him? That he’s a nightmare. He’s exacting, ruthless, and insane. That I feel like every little thing is a test. Every second he looks at me, I’m failing. And I’m not failing. I do everything. Perfectly. And it’s never enough.”
I grunt, catching my breath.
“I hate him. I hate the way he makes me feel small, exhausted, and like I should be grateful for it.”
I pause again, not oblivious to the fact that she’s letting me vent.
“I’m just running, running, running, running, and it never ends,” I snap into the phone, the words spilling faster than I can organize them. “And I can’t tell him to go fuck himself. I can’t even look at him the way I want.”
My voice carries farther than I intend and a few heads turn. Someone clears their throat, making heat crawl up my neck. I lower the phone slightly, suddenly very aware of the space I’m occupying.
Behind the counter, the owner finally straightens, his fingers twisting a stubborn lever on the machine. It groans, sputters, and then buzzes back to life.
Steam hisses, the sound victorious.
A ripple moves through the line. Shoulders loosen and conversations resume.
I exhale slowly, forcing my grip on the phone to relax, reminding myself where I am, who I am, and how much composure I can afford to lose this morning.
Lisa murmurs something calming on the other end like she always does when I'm spinning, trying to catch my own tail.
I nod to myself, even though she can’t see it.
“You sound like hell,” Lisa notes.
“I feel more like shit,” I admit, my voice a whisper now. “I just…need to keep surviving him.”
I step forward and finally claim the coffee. For a moment, I let myself feel…vindicated. If only slightly.
I pay and step aside to give others room.
“Okay,” I pull my phone back up. “I’m alive. I’m not dead yet.”
“Good.” Lisa laughs softly through the line. “Try to breathe, babe. Drop your shoulders and focus on this minute.”
I let out a shaky exhale, rolling my shoulders slowly, feeling the tension ease just enough to notice the burn of the cup in my hands. I rub my palms along its sides, and the caramel aroma drifts up, comforting my nerves.
“I can’t believe I let it get this bad,” I grumble, more to myself than Lisa.
“You’re okay,” Lisa insists with a patient tone. “You’ve survived worse. You can handle a million Ares Greco.”
I nod, because she’s right.
I take one more breath to put myself together. I smooth down my blouse, straighten my skirt, and adjust my feet in my heels.
I look okay: a glance at my reflection in the glass panel of the counter confirms it.
I step out of the shop, bracing for the familiar sight of the SUV waiting curbside. But the curb is empty. The tires aren’t there. The engine isn’t idling.
I stop short.
I look left. Then right. Once more, slower this time, like the car might materialize if I give it enough attention.
It doesn’t.
The car is gone.
A tight, twisting knot starts winding in my stomach, pulling with it every exhausted nerve I’ve been holding together since dawn. My phone feels suddenly too light in my hand, the coffee too hot, and my breathing too shallow.
I drag in a breath, then another, already calculating what this means.
How late this makes me.
How this will somehow be my fault.
How I’ll still be expected to fix it.
“Oh, damn you, Ares Greco,” I snap, tipping my face toward the indifferent sky, keeping my voice low enough not to earn stares. “Damn you. Burn. Burn. Burn.”