18 | ☕We Need to Talk （Not That Itll Change Anything） ☕
Anya's mind was spinning in a chaotic whirl of thoughts, each one more confusing than the last.
It was as if the world had tilted off its axis and suddenly, nothing made sense anymore.
Why had Atlas bought the café? That was the first question that kept rattling in her head.
It didn't add up. Atlas Valtieri wasn't someone who made rash decisions.
He was methodical, calculated—he had to be.
So, why on earth would he buy a business that wasn't even his? A business that was so important to her?
But that was only the beginning of it. How did he even manage to pull this off so fast?
One moment, she was brewing coffee in the back like she did every morning, and the next, Atlas was the owner.
She didn't know much about his empire, but she did know that there were layers upon layers of people and paperwork in the way of any significant purchase.
Yet somehow, Atlas had made it happen without even so much as a word to her.
The realization was almost enough to make her dizzy.
But the question that was slowly overtaking all the others, the one that gnawed at her insides with a sense of urgency, was the simplest—and the most terrifying—of them all.
How was she supposed to deal with this?
Her mind couldn't wrap around the reality of it.
The café had been her sanctuary. It was a place she had spent months working, pouring her heart into every corner, every cup, every smile she served.
It was her safe space. It was where she felt in control, where she felt herself.
And now? Now, it was in the hands of a man who barely understood what it meant to care for something other than his own success.
He hadn't asked for her opinion. He hadn't even hinted at it.
He'd simply decided, as though it was his right, to take what had been hers and claim it as his own.
The reality of it made her stomach churn.
This wasn't just about ownership. It was about power. And she had none of it.
So, like any rational person suddenly caught in a completely irrational situation, Anya had made the only choice she could. She had to confront him.
There was no escaping it anymore. The questions swirled too wildly in her mind—Why did he do it? Why did he feel the need to control her space? Was this some twisted way of trying to show affection? She needed answers, and the only person who could give them to her was Atlas himself.
The confrontation wasn't going to be easy, though.
First, she had to make it past his secretary—the woman who seemed to have an encyclopaedic knowledge of every detail about Anya's life.
The fact that the woman had already memorized her name was unsettling enough, but it was the way she greeted Anya with that knowing, polite smile that grated at her.
Was she in on this, too? Did everyone know what Atlas was doing except for her?
Then, there was the labyrinth of polished glass and steel hallways, each one as cold and clinical as Atlas's demeanour.
She'd only been in the building a handful of times, but each time she had felt more out of place.
Now, the maze of corridors seemed even more daunting.
Which way to go? How could she even figure out where his office was in this sprawling fortress of modernity?
And finally—perhaps the hardest part—gathering the courage to actually open the door.
She had thought about this moment for hours, replaying the conversation in her mind, imagining every possible scenario.
But now that she was standing at the threshold of his office, all those rehearsed words felt flimsy.
What if she couldn't express what she was feeling?
What if he dismissed her again, like he had before?
What if he was too far removed from the situation to understand?
It had taken her longer than she'd expected to work up the nerve to get this far, but here she was.
Now, standing in front of his office, she felt like a stranger. A stranger in his world.
It was a surreal moment—one that seemed to stretch in all directions at once, like time itself was holding its breath.
Watching Atlas calmly set down his pen, the soft click of it against the desk sharp in the otherwise quiet room, Anya could feel the tension in the air thicken.
He didn't look flustered. He didn't look guilty.
He didn't even look particularly surprised.
Instead, he tilted his head ever so slightly, his dark eyes locking onto hers with that familiar, unreadable intensity.
There was something unsettling in his gaze—a quiet power that seemed to stretch beyond the walls of the room.
The world could have fallen away, and it would have been just the two of them in that space, in that moment, locked in this strange, silent standoff.
But Anya wasn't about to let him remain the unshakable figure he always was. Not this time. She had too many questions, too much to say. This was ridiculous, and she wasn't going to let him avoid the truth any longer.
Her breath hitched as she crossed her arms over her chest, the familiar gesture a shield, a way to steel herself against the weight of the conversation that loomed.
Her fingers pressed into her elbows as she planted her feet firmly on the floor.
She needed to keep her composure—this was the one time she couldn't let him see her waver.
With a quiet exhale, Anya placed her hands firmly on her hips.
It wasn't a move of arrogance or defiance—it was the only way she could force herself to stand tall, to project the confidence she felt she desperately needed in the face of Atlas's impenetrable calm.
She signed, the words coming with an authority she didn't feel but was determined to show: "We need to talk."
Atlas didn't flinch, not even a little. Instead, he raised an eyebrow, his expression a perfect mask of curiosity and slight amusement.
It was the same look he always wore when he was waiting for her to say something that would surprise him.
He didn't seem bothered, didn't seem rattled by her presence, the tension thick in the air.
As if, somehow, he'd known this moment was coming, and he was completely prepared for it.
He gestured lazily for her to continue, his eyes never leaving hers.
Her chest tightened, and she took a sharp breath, trying to steady herself.
It wasn't anger, not really—not like before when she had felt her frustration burn through every conversation they'd had.
No, this time, it was something else. It was a simmering, quiet frustration, a helplessness that came from the way he simply...
took control of everything, of her life, without asking for her permission.
And why did he have to be so damn Atlas about it all? Always so calm. Always so composed. So damn sure of himself, of everything.
Her mind scrambled for words. This wasn't just a simple conversation.
It felt like everything hung in the balance, like this moment was the final test—the line between the two of them, which neither of them had crossed yet.
But it had to happen now. She needed to know the why.
She needed to know what the hell he thought he was doing.
So, instead of hesitating, instead of letting the moment drag on, Anya demanded, "Why did you buy the café?"
Atlas leaned back in his chair, his posture as casual and unbothered as ever.
His fingers drummed lightly on the desk in front of him, his expression still as unreadable as when she'd first walked in.
His calmness only made her frustration simmer hotter—how could he be so detached from everything she was feeling?
Without a hint of hesitation, without the faintest change in his expression, he signed:
"Because I can."
Anya stared at him, the disbelief clear on her face as the words she needed to say swirled in her mind, but none seemed strong enough to capture the absurdity of it all.
"Atlas."
She said his name like it could somehow carry the weight of all her confusion, all the questions that tangled together like an impossible knot in her chest. Her eyes narrowed, trying to read him, trying to find some trace of guilt, some flicker of hesitation. But there was nothing.
He simply tilted his head, his expression as unreadable as ever, and that faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. It wasn't a smile. It wasn't an apology. It was just—Atlas.
"Anya."
She wasn't sure how much longer she could hold her ground.
The more she stared at him, the more impossible the situation felt.
Her fingers trembled, but not from fear.
No, it was from the sheer frustration of it all.
How could he be so unaffected? How could he look at her with that same calm, controlled demeanour, as if everything was perfectly normal?
As if she should simply accept the fact that he had decided how her life would unfold, with no regard for her opinion.
Her patience was slipping, the cracks starting to show as she took a step forward, her hands flying up in exasperation.
Her fingers gestured toward the office around them—this cold, sterile space that seemed to represent everything Atlas stood for.
As if somehow the absurdity of the situation would make sense if she just pointed to it long enough.
"You can't just go around buying things because you don't like how much time I spend there!"
Her voice was louder now, rising in frustration, the words tumbling out before she could stop them.
She wasn't even sure who she was angry at anymore—at him for doing this?
Or at herself for being caught up in his world in the first place?
Atlas didn't flinch. He didn't even seem surprised. The man had a tendency to remain immovable, like some impenetrable wall, unshaken by everything she threw at him.
"I can." He signed.
The answer was simple. Too simple. And utterly unbothered.
Atlas's words hung in the air, flat and decisive, as if he were stating a fact of life—like this entire situation didn't deserve a second thought.
As if nothing about it could be questioned, because to him, it was his to control.
His domain, his rules, and everyone else just had to accept it. Even her.
Anya, for all the resolve she had carefully built up, almost felt a little dizzy.