Chapter 1
Rio In A Cup
~ROSEMARIE~
The espresso machine hisses like a temperamental dragon, steam curling into the warm air of Hazel's Hearth & Home Bakery, and I watch the dark liquid drip into the cup with the kind of intensity usually reserved for surgeons or bomb defusal experts.
This is it. This is the one.
I've been working on this particular concoction for three days now—a signature drink inspired by Rio de Janeiro, by the videos that have consumed my phone screen for the past week, by the aching, hollow feeling in my chest that I refuse to name.
The beans are a perfect Brazilian Santos blend, medium roast with notes of chocolate and hazelnut that bloom on the tongue like a sunrise.
I've added a hint of orange zest to the syrup, a whisper of cinnamon that lingers at the back of the palate, and just enough brown sugar to make it feel like warmth personified.
The bakery wraps around me like a hug—all golden wood tones and soft lighting, the mingled scents of fresh bread, vanilla frosting, and the ever-present undercurrent of coffee that's become my second skin.
Morning light filters through the frost-kissed windows, casting everything in shades of amber and cream.
It's quiet this early, just me and the gentle hum of the ovens preheating for Mila's morning rush of pastries.
This is my favorite time. Before the customers arrive. Before I have to be 'on.' Before anyone expects anything from me except really, really good coffee.
My omega scent—cinnamon sugar and roasted coffee beans, dark vanilla and soft amber—mingles with the bakery's own fragrance until I'm not sure where I end and this place begins. There's something poetic about that, probably. Something about finding home in the space between cream and espresso.
But my hands have paused over the cup, the final pour suspended in air, and I know exactly why.
Rio.
The videos started appearing on my feed somewhere around December 28th—algorithm sorcery or cosmic cruelty, I haven't decided which.
New Year's Eve in Rio de Janeiro. Copacabana Beach stretching like a pearl-white ribbon against water so blue it hurts to look at.
Millions of people dressed entirely in white, a tradition meant to bring peace and good fortune, transforming the shoreline into a sea of angels waiting for midnight.
And the fireworks.
God, the fireworks.
They explode over the water in cascades of gold and silver and brilliant emerald, reflecting off the waves until the whole world becomes light.
The videos capture everything—strangers hugging, champagne bottles popping, the thunderous countdown in Portuguese that I don't understand but somehow feel in my bones.
Feliz Ano Novo! they scream, and the joy is so visceral it leaks through my phone screen and settles somewhere beneath my ribs.
This is the second year I've gotten lost in doom scrolling these videos. The second New Year's Eve spent alone in my apartment, wrapped in a blanket that doesn't smell like anyone but me, watching people I'll never meet celebrate the promise of fresh starts.
Pathetic? Maybe. Therapeutic? Also maybe. The jury's still deliberating.
What always hits me—what always makes me set my phone down and stare at the ceiling until the ache passes—are the omegas.
Watching them get swept up in their Alphas' arms as the clock strikes twelve.
The way they're spun around with such effortless joy, laughter spilling from their lips as fireworks paint their faces in technicolor.
The kisses—God, the kisses—deep and desperate and so full of promise that I have to look away sometimes.
It's not like the performative affection I grew up witnessing.
Not like the society galas where bonded pairs posed for photographs with smiles that never reached their eyes, where "love" was a transaction measured in mergers and social capital.
Not like the pack I'd been forced into, where touches felt like ownership and affection came with conditions.
No. The Rio videos show something different. Something real.
Even when they're clearly doing it for the 'gram—chasing views and engagement and that sweet, sweet algorithm boost—there's one thing the camera can't fake: the expression in their eyes. That soft, melting look that says you are my entire world and I don't care who knows it.
I want that.
I want that so badly it feels like a physical wound sometimes, a bruise on my heart that never quite heals.
My reflection stares back at me from the polished surface of the espresso machine—dark hair falling loose around my shoulders, hazel eyes that are a little too observant for my own good, the glint of my small nose hoop and eyebrow piercing catching the morning light.
My butterflies are hidden under my work clothes today, the fine-line tattoos scattered along my ribs and hip and shoulder blade wrapped safely away from public view.
Symbols of survival. Of rebirth. Of choosing my own transformation.
I frown at the cup beneath me, at the dark liquid that's supposed to capture the essence of a celebration I've only ever witnessed through a screen.
How do you bottle joy? How do you pour hope into espresso?
How do you make a drink that tastes like fireworks over water and strangers becoming friends at midnight?
Maybe you can't. Maybe some things aren't meant to be reduced to flavor profiles and brewing techniques.
A sigh escapes me—heavy and tired and far too revealing for this early in the morning—and I lower my concoction back to the counter. The coffee sits there, waiting, steam rising in delicate spirals that catch the light like ghost-dancers.
What's wrong with you today, Rosemarie? It's just a drink. Just coffee. You've created hundreds of signature beverages. You literally have one named after you at the corporate headquarters of the world's biggest coffee chain.
But this one feels different. This one feels like I'm trying to distill all my loneliness into liquid form and then somehow—somehow—alchemize it into something beautiful.
No pressure or anything.
The bell above the door chimes—a cheerful jingle that cuts through my existential coffee crisis like a knife through butter—and I lift my head automatically, retail-smile already forming.
The smile freezes.
Shatters.
Reforms into something entirely genuine.
"Ruby?!" I practically shriek, and there goes any illusion of being a calm, composed professional. "
The woman standing in the doorway is a vision in black leather and fire. She laughs—that bright, unrestrained laugh I'd know anywhere—and waves one hand while the other clutches what's clearly a gift bag.
I feel like I'm seeing a ghost. A gorgeous, six-foot-tall, leather-clad ghost who smells like wild roses and gasoline and pure unadulterated chaos.
Ruby Martinez is what you'd call a firecracker of empowerment—the kind of omega who makes Alphas nervous and other omegas either intimidated or immediately obsessed, with no in-between.
Her hair is vivid red-orange, the exact shade of flames licking up from a bonfire, falling in dramatic waves past her shoulders.
Golden eyes—actual gold, like someone melted down ancient coins and poured them into her irises—sparkle with perpetual mischief.
Her lips are painted their signature ruby red, perfectly complementing the subtle flush of blush across her slightly tanned cheekbones.
And she's tall. Gloriously, unapologetically tall. In her leather boots with their chunky heels, she's easily six feet of badass omega energy. The black leather jumpsuit she's wearing hugs every curve like it was sewn specifically for her body, which, knowing Ruby, it probably was.
She rides a motorcycle "for fun and vibes," her words. She once told an Alpha who tried to neg her that his knot probably couldn't satisfy a donut hole, and then finished her coffee while he stood there processing the insult. She is, in every possible way, a rebel wrapped in omega packaging.
And she used to be my coworker at the Starbucks Reservatory—the corporate think tank where they pay people obscene amounts of money to invent drinks that shouldn't exist but somehow become bestsellers.
I'm already yanking off my apron, tossing it onto the counter as I rush around to meet her.
My hands smooth down my black henley and high-waisted jeans—casual but cute, the kind of outfit that says "I'm working but I still have taste"—and then I'm throwing my arms around her like we didn't just see each other.
.. actually, when did we last see each other?
"Still tall as ever," I sigh into her shoulder, which is really more like her collarbone given our height difference.
Ruby laughs, the sound vibrating through me like music.
"Being six feet in leather boots should be a sin, I know.
" She pulls back to look at me, those golden eyes doing a quick assessment.
Her scent wraps around me—wild roses with that sharp undertone of gasoline, like freedom bottled and given an attitude.
"Look at you, running a whole bakery like a boss bitch. "
"Co-running," I correct, already steering her toward the counter. "Hazel's on maternity leave. I'm just holding down the fort."
"Same thing." Ruby settles onto one of the window stools, crossing one impossibly long leg over the other.
The morning light catches the golden undertones in her tan, and I notice for the first time that she's darker than when I last saw her.
"What concoction were you pursuing when I so rudely interrupted? "
I glance back at my abandoned cup, the Rio experiment waiting patiently on the counter.