Chapter 4 Lila
Lila
Fifteen years later, and he’s standing right in front of me, looking like a goddamn magazine cover. Taller, sharper, more composed than he ever was at seventeen.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suit hugging broad shoulders, not the scrappy, reckless boy I once knew. This man is all muscle, sharp lines and control, his eyes scanning the cafe like he’s already decided how the next few minutes will play out.
He hasn’t seen me yet.
My pulse pounds. Every instinct tells me to bolt, but I’m frozen.
Then, his eyes lock onto mine. Recognition flashes in his gaze, his lips twitch into something resembling a smile, cool, unreadable, and utterly terrifying.
Shit.
“Ms Ng,” he says, his voice lower, smoother than I remember, as he closes the distance between us. His expression doesn’t falter, completely composed, like I’m a stranger he’s never met before.
He’s acting like he doesn’t know me.
What the actual fuck?
I inhale slowly, swallowing the sharp burn of resentment rising in my throat, and part my lips, ready to greet him, to say something, anything.
But before I can speak, he holds out his hand.
It stops me cold.
Not a smirk. Not a flicker of acknowledgment. Just a calm, detached handshake. Like we don’t have history.
For a second, I just stare at his hand. It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a handshake. But something in me hesitates, my fingers twitching at my sides. Do I call him out?
I should leave him hanging. I should cross my arms, tilt my head, let him feel the weight of my silence.
But then, before I can decide otherwise, I take it.
Mistake.
His grip is rough, firm, too familiar. A shiver shoots up my spine before I can stop it. Damn it. His fingers strong around mine, a dozen memories crash into me all at once.
A different time. A different version of him. I force myself to stay still, even though my body is screaming at me to pull away. Break the contact. Stop this reaction.
His thumb brushes against the side of my hand before he lets go, and it takes everything in me not to flinch.
Goddamn it.
I yank my hand back too quickly, heat creeping up my neck. Stupid. That was the stupidest idea. My palm tingles where his skin touched mine, and I curl my fingers into a fist to erase the feeling.
His face remains unreadable, cool and indifferent.
Like he didn’t feel a damn thing.
Fine. Two can play that game.
I smooth my expression, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Well, thank you for coming, Mr. Ashcroft.” My voice is steady, professional. Almost convincing.
Almost.
His lips curve slightly, not quite a smile, more like he knows exactly what he’s doing and then, smoothly, he says, “Call me Ben.”
The words hit like a sucker punch.
I keep my face neutral, but something in my chest tightens. The casual ease of it. Like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like he’s still Ben, not the man who disappeared from my life fifteen years ago without a word.
No.
He doesn’t get to do that.
I smile. Polite, distant, utterly detached. “Mr. Ashcroft will do just fine.”
His eyes flicker, just for a moment, and I tell myself that’s a win.
“Take a seat.” I gesture toward the back table, my hand steady even though my heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of my chest. His lips twitch, just slightly, like he’s amused.
Whatever game he’s playing, I refuse to let him win. He gives a slight nod, his eyes never leaving mine. I turn on my heel before I do something really stupid, like react again.
“After you,” he says, his voice soft but edged with something dangerous. I walk towards the table, every nerve on high alert, my breath coming in shallow bursts.
Come on, Lila. Up your game, bitch.
I square my shoulders, forcing my steps to stay steady, calm, in control. This is your cafe, your home turf. He’s just a visitor, no matter how intimidating he looks in that perfectly tailored suit.
I settle into my chair, smoothing my blazer as I lift my chin and meet his gaze again. No blinking. No backing down.
“Shall we get started?” I say, my voice firm, even though my heart is still racing.
His lips curve ever so slightly. “By all means.”
He leans back in his chair, watching me with an unsettling calm, his eyes flicking between my notes and my face like he’s waiting to see which will crack first—my argument or my composure.
Not happening.
I let the silence sit, thick and heavy, letting it do half the work for me. Let him feel it. The weight of every set of eyes fixed on him. The weight of what he’s here to destroy.
Ben Ashcroft expected a simple meeting. A polite discussion. Maybe a bit of push back.
He has no idea what he’s walked into.
I square my shoulders, keeping my voice firm and clear.
“Mr. Ashcroft, thank you for meeting with us today.” I gesture around the table, making sure his attention follows mine.
“We’re here on behalf of The Silverbeck Business Coalition, a group of independent business owners, residents, and community leaders who will be directly impacted by your development project. ”
I push on. “We’re here because we have serious concerns about your company’s plans and before you say you understand, let me introduce you to the people whose livelihoods are at stake.”
I turn to my right, nodding at Clara. “Clara is my co-lead in this alliance. She owns The Willow Salon, a cornerstone of Silverbeck for over fifteen years.”
Clara sits stiff-backed, arms folded over her chest, her expression polite but unwavering.
“Thomas Russell,” I continue, motioning to the man beside her. “Runs Russell’s Bakery, a family business that’s been here for four generations.”
Ben’s gaze flickers briefly toward Thomas. The first crack in his polished detachment.
Thomas leans forward, folding his arms on the table. “I remember you, Ben,” he says, his voice even but firm. “Knew your mother, too. She was a good woman. It’s a damn shame to hear you’ve come back just to tear this place apart.”
A few murmurs ripple around the table. I watch Ben closely, waiting for any sign of a reaction. A twitch of the jaw. A flicker of discomfort. Anything.
But he gives nothing away.
This is not the Ben I knew. Not even close and somehow, that’s worse.
One by one, I introduce them, the butcher, the greengrocer, the art gallery owner. Fifteen business owners. A few community members. All here because they refuse to be erased.
Ben listens, impassive, hands folded neatly in front of him. Just calculation.
Finally, when I’ve named every single person in the room, I lean forward, resting my hands flat on the table.
“Now that you know who we are, Mr. Ashcroft,” I say, my voice sharp but steady, “why don’t you tell us exactly how you plan to justify ripping the heart out of this town?”
Silence.
For the first time since walking in, Ben exhales, slow and measured. His eyes flick to mine, and for a second, just a second, I think I see something. A flicker of recognition. A sliver of hesitation.
Then it’s gone.
The game begins.
I slide a neatly bound stack of reports across the table toward him. He doesn’t even glance at it. His eyes stay locked on mine.
“Thank you, Ms Ng,” he says, his lips curving into that faint, maddening smile again. “I’m always open to hearing community concerns.”
Liar.
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. We both know this meeting is more about appearances than solutions. He’s here to pacify us, maybe throw out a few empty promises.
“We’re not just here to express concerns. We want a solution that protects this community without sacrificing what makes it special.”
Clara murmurs her agreement, and I hear Thomas mutter, “Exactly.”
Ben leans back in his chair, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the table. “Collaboration is always… valuable,” he says slowly. “But there are limits to what can be negotiated in business. Not everything can be preserved.”
Translation: You can fight this all you want, but it won’t change the outcome. The air crackles with unspoken tension. The quiet hum of the cafe feels deafening now, the espresso machine hissing softly in the background.
I refuse to blink. “We’re asking for fairness. A development plan that considers the community you’re affecting, not one that bulldozes over it without a second thought.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “Fairness is subjective. What one person sees as fairness, another sees as interference. Business decisions require pragmatism, not emotion.”
My jaw tightens. The nerve of this man.
“We’re not speaking emotionally,” I counter. “We’ve backed everything with data. Statistics on foot traffic, customer demographics, economic impact. All of which shows that small businesses like ours are crucial to the area’s long-term stability.”
I push the report toward him again. “It’s all in there, if you’d like to verify.”
He finally picks it up, flipping through the pages with maddening calmness. His lips twitch, but there’s no humour in the expression, just calculation.
“Impressive work,” he says, setting the report down with a soft thud. “But numbers don’t always reflect reality. Sentiment can’t be quantified, and nostalgia rarely pays the bills.”
The words hit harder than they should, but I hold my ground.
“It’s not nostalgia,” I say evenly. “It’s community. Something you seem to think is negotiable. It’s not.”
Clara leans in. “These businesses are our lives. Our homes.”
Ben’s gaze flicks to her, then back to me. For the briefest moment, something shifts in his expression, but just as quickly, his mask slides back into place.
“I understand that,” he says, his voice as smooth as ever, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. “Which is why all businesses affected by the development will be financially compensated at a fair market price.”
The words land like a calculated move, controlled. A statement meant to sound reasonable, even generous.