Chapter 6
SIX
I BLINK, TRYING to clear the gritty dryness that clings to my eyelids like sandpaper. “Great,” I mutter, a raspy croak.
My reflection winces back. Skin is ghostly pale. Shadows under my eyes are stubborn remnants of a sleepless night. I wrench my hair back, twisting it into a messy bun. The oversized tracksuit swamps my frame. My only option for shoes? The black stilettos from last night.
What a disaster.
The thought of putting my dress back on turns my stomach. It feels toxic. Its fabric is the betrayal I’m trying to outrun.
What now?
I search for answers in the dull eyes staring back in the mirror.
I have to get the ring.
Only then can I face James and be free. But he still holds that loan over my head like a guillotine. He can sell the café out from under me if I leave him.
A surge of nausea hits. I grip the edge of the sink, willing myself not to throw up.
I’ll come back to search for the damn thing later today.
Hopefully, when Matthew’s not home.
The sky outside the window is a dark canvas, with the faintest glimmer of dawn at the horizon.
Thank God for the darkness.
I shove my dress and wig into the handbag and ease the guest room door open. The hinges shriek. I cringe, peeking across the landing.
His door is closed.
He’s still asleep.
I exhale slowly. Tension eases from my shoulders.
Using the dim light from my phone, I creep down the stairs. Each step is a groan in the silent house. When I reach the bottom, a muffled thump from the basement makes me jump.
I pause, straining to hear.
Another thump. Followed by a heavy, rhythmic thud vibrating through the floor.
He’s awake.
Maybe he couldn’t sleep either.
I imagine him down there, fists beating against a punching bag.
Is this his daily ritual? Or is he releasing pent-up frustration?
It’s none of my business.
I shake the image away.
Time to go.
A run-in with Matthew is not something I can handle right now.
Once on the sidewalk, I rush across the street to the next intersection and hail a cab. The cool morning air stings my cheeks. I pull the oversized sweatshirt tighter, seeking a comfort it can’t provide.
A cab pulls up. I slide into the backseat, sinking into worn leather. “State Street, please,” I tell the driver, my morning voice rough with sleep.
As the car lurches forward, I close my eyes. Exhaustion tugs at my eyelids.
Just get me to the café.
It’s the only place that feels truly mine. The one thing James hasn’t taken.
Yet.
The cab eases to a stop. My gaze finds Maddy’s Place.
Its warm olive-green exterior and black-and-white striped awning bloom like a promise against the steel and glass of downtown Madison.
Vibrant green ferns spill from hanging baskets.
A splash of life against the city’s harsh edges.
Seeing it is like exhaling for the first time in hours.
My haven.
The one place I truly belong.
I remember my first day here. A wide-eyed newcomer.
This was just a temporary job. An income until I moved on.
But the women in this little café wove themselves into my heart.
Eventually, the owner, Mary, announced her retirement and suggested I take over.
The responsibility felt monumental. The price tag, unaffordable.
But Mary, with her kind heart, adjusted the terms. Still, the cost remained daunting.
And that’s where James stepped in. Offering the loan with a loving smile and a contract.
Stupid, stupid girl.
Blinded by what I thought was love, I only skimmed the loan agreement, even though the breakup clause gave me pause. I’d completely forgotten it the moment I slid the key into the lock as the new owner. The empowerment was intoxicating.
Now, it is nothing more than a distant memory. Snatched from me the same way James snatched my keys yesterday.
Panic claws at my throat.
Pushed out of our apartment.
Locked out of my café.
What’s next?
I fling my bag onto the nearest patio table and slump into the wooden chair. My muscles ache, head pounds, and exhaustion overpowers me. I close my eyes, willing the world to fade away.
I can’t think.
I can’t feel.
I can’t even summon the energy to cry.
Resting my forehead on my crossed arms, I drift into an uneasy sleep. The rumble of traffic and the chirping of birds fade into a dull roar.
A gentle nudge to my shoulder startles me awake. I groan, my neck aching and back throbbing. I blink against the sudden sunlight. My mind struggles to catch up with my surroundings.
The café.
I fell asleep out here.
Peering up, I see Helen towering over me, brow furrowed, dark eyes creased with concern. “?Dios mio, Ames! What are you doing out here?”
I attempt a smile, but my face feels stiff as stone.
“Is everything okay?” she asks more softly.
If only you knew.
I push myself up with great difficulty. “I need to get inside,” I mumble, words thick with sleep. “I’m freezing.”
“Mija…” She pauses, eyes sweeping over me from head to toe. “Why are you wearing James’s tracksuit? And with those shoes?” Helen tsks, shaking her head. “Did you get dressed in the dark?”
Helen has never been one to mince words.
It’s why I trust this fiery, middle-aged Latina wholeheartedly.
I was so relieved when she accepted the manager position, despite her strong aversion to paperwork.
There’s no way I could run this place without her.
But right now, she is getting on my last nerve.
“Can we please talk inside, Helen?” I groan, dropping my head back.
“Of course, of course,” she concedes, fumbling with her keys. “What’s going on with you this morning?”
“I’ve had zero sleep,” I explain, shivering as I step inside. “So unless this place is on fire, do not wake me.”
“Seriously?! You’re going to sleep?”
“Yes!” I throw my hands up, nearly losing my balance. “I just need sleep!” I push open the door to my office.
It’s small and cluttered. But it’s mine.
And right now, my tired bones are drawn to the worn sofa as if it were a five-star hotel bed.
I kick off my heels and collapse onto its blissfully soft surface with a groan of relief.
The sharp rap of knuckles rips me from sleep. I sit up, stifling a yawn and stretching my arms. The leather cushions sigh beneath me.
“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty!” Helen bursts in, but then halts when her eyes land on me. “Uhhh… never mind the beauty part. Mija, you look like you wrestled a bear and lost.”
I manage a weak laugh. “That’s one way to put it.”
“Hey, a real friend tells you when you look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a bush.” Her smile melts, replaced by a look of alarm. “But speaking of bears…” she whispers, her gaze darting to the door before pushing it almost shut. “Bancroft’s lawyer is here to see you.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Warren,” she replies, wringing her hands.
“Warren?” I frown.
“The attorney that old geezer hired to get rid of us.”
“Here?” I shoot upright. “He’s here in person?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Helen throws her hands up.
“Oh no, no, no,” I shake my head, looking around nervously. “No, not today, Helen, I can’t—”
“Excuse me,” a deep voice interrupts.
The door swings open.
Matthew?
My blood runs cold. All I can hear is the loud pounding of my heart.
His broad shoulders fill the doorway. His impeccably tailored suit cuts a powerful figure.
Sharp and professional. Nothing like my small frame, still swamped in his rumpled tracksuit.
He looks like he belongs in a courtroom, not my coffee shop.
I tug at the oversized sleeves, suddenly self-conscious.
“Sorry, but I need to be quick—” He freezes. His intense green eyes widen in shock.
“Oh my God… you’re Harold Bancroft’s lawyer,” I whisper, my cheeks blazing with embarrassment.
My mind reels, trying to reconcile the compassionate man from last night with the adversary standing before me.
“Amy Beckett?” His voice falters. “Maddy’s Place, Amy?”
“O… kay…” Helen looks between us, eyebrows shooting up. “Well, this is weird,” she mutters. “I’ll, uh... get back to our customers.” She slips out of the office.
The click of the door latch is a gunshot in the silence.
“You’re his lawyer,” I state in quiet shock.
The words don’t just land; they detonate. Shrapnel tears through every memory of the last twelve hours.
His easy kindness. A trap.
His guest room. A holding cell.
His pool. Where I handed him every piece of ammunition he needs to destroy me.
Humiliation makes me dizzy. I feel like a witness on the stand. Every private truth I shared entered into evidence. Every weakness, every vulnerability, every desperate hope laid bare for the prosecution.
I step back, hands flying to cover my face. “You have got to be kidding me,” I mumble into my palms.
“Amy…” He says my name like a plea.
I drop my hands, pointing a trembling finger. “I told you everything!”
Matthew looks horrified. “No, no. Listen to me—”
“And the loan,” I interrupt.
His brow furrows. “What about the loan?”
“You understood it perfectly,” I continue, eyes wide. “And now you know how financially trapped I am. You. The man hired to find my weak points.”
He steps toward me, hands raised. “I would never do that—”
“Why not?” I cut him off. “My weakness is now your ammunition. Your client is Harold Bancroft, not me!”
He shakes his head, slow and pained. “No, Amy. Last night, that was me. This… this is my job. The two are not connected. You have to believe me.” He takes another step, eyes blazing with sincerity.
Voices rise outside. Helen’s panicked, “She’s in a meeting!” Is cut off as the door crashes open.
“Where the fuck have you been?” James storms in.
The room shrinks. The air thickens with his anger.
His eyes widen, then narrow on Matthew. “Who the hell are you?!”
Matthew stands his ground. Relaxed. Unflinching. A picture of quiet strength next to James’s chaotic fury.
“I could ask you the same.” Matthew raises a challenging eyebrow.
James squares his shoulders, puffing out his chest. I shrink back, legs pressing against the edge of the sofa behind me.
I clear my throat. “James, this is Matthew Warren, Harold Bancroft’s lawyer. Matthew, this is James, my fiancé.” That last word claws its way out.
“Nobody teach you to knock, James?” Matthew drawls, lips curving into a sardonic smile. “Or are basic manners not included in your designer suit package?”
Malice gleams in James’s eyes. He steps closer, invading Mathew’s space.
With a condescending smirk, he reaches out and flicks Matthew’s lapel. “At least I’m not the one helping Bancroft get rid of my fiancée’s café,” he retorts.
Matthew’s expression hardens. “Don’t mistake civility for weakness, James.” He deliberately smooths his own blazer, meeting James’s gaze without flinching. “I assure you, I have no qualms about getting my hands dirty.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” James snarls.
Matthew closes the distance. “It means don’t let the suit fool you.”
The air crackles. I hold my breath, anticipating violence. But James, after a moment of stunned silence, steps back, face flushed.
“Get out,” he says to Matthew, his voice a venomous growl. “I need a moment with my fiancée.” He emphasizes the word. Staking a claim.
Matthew hesitates, jaw clenching. He glances at me, a shadow of concern crossing his eyes. I force myself to meet his gaze, willing him to understand. With a slight shake of my head, I silently plead with him to leave.
I step forward, placing myself between them. “Mr. Warren,” I start, voice trembling but firm. “If you could just give us a moment…” I gesture towards the door. “We’ll continue our meeting shortly.”
Matthew stiffens. The muscle in his jaw tightens. But he takes a deep breath and schools his features into an impassive mask. With a curt nod at me, he turns and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him.
My pulse quickens. My hands tremble. A sob rises in my throat, but I push it down, steeling myself. I brace for the inevitable confrontation.