Chapter 8 Lila
Lila
The cafe hums with life, the scent of fresh roses, eucalyptus, and lilies mingling with coffee and the faint aroma of cinnamon. Vases clutter the worktables, half-finished bouquets in various stages of completion for Sophie and Marcus’s charity gala.
Maeve perches on a stool, her tiny tongue sticking out in concentration as she draws tulips on small cards. Her red and yellow flowers dance across the paper with surprising precision for a four-year-old.
“They’re tulips,” Maeve announces proudly, holding one up. “Mummy says they’re special for people with Parkinson’s.”
“They are,” I say, crouching next to her. “You’re doing an amazing job.”
Olivia leans down to kiss her daughter’s head. “She’s been obsessed with tulips and their meanings lately.”
“Because tulips are magic,” Maeve says seriously, like she’s revealing the secret to the universe.
The bell on the cafe door jingles, and my mum bustles in from the back, balancing a tray of freshly steamed baos and a pot of tea. “Lila, have you even offered your friends anything? Honestly, what kind of hostess are you?”
I sigh, but before I can reply, Sophie perks up.
“Auntie Mei, you always know exactly what we need.” I don’t miss the warmth that blooms in my chest at the way they call her that, like she’s theirs too.
Like family. It’s been years since I had a support system outside Mum.
My old friends moved on, different cities, different lives and for a long time, I thought that part of my world was done.
When I first joined Books That Bang, it was just meant to be a fun escape. A place to meet people who actually liked reading spicy books like me, nothing more. I never imagined I’d find such a great bunch of women, funny, fierce, loyal, who somehow feel like home. Like I belong again.
Mum beams, setting the tray down in the centre of the table. “Of course, you girls work too hard. You need to eat!” She starts pouring tea with practiced precision, already fussing over Maeve, who’s kneeling on a chair, doodling intensely on a stack of cards.
“Are those tulips, sweetheart?” Mum asks, brushing Maeve’s curls out of her face.
Maeve nods, her little hands gripping a crayon. “Tulips mean hope,” she says matter-of-factly. Sophie reaches over, giving Maeve’s tiny hand a gentle squeeze. “That’s right, sweetheart. My dad is going to love them.”
Olivia presses a kiss to the top of Maeve’s head. “When she heard about the tulip’s symbol, she wanted to make these for the event.”
I glance at the stack of handmade cards spread across the table, each one decorated with Maeve’s careful crayon work, bright tulips in shades of red, yellow, and pink. “They’re beautiful,” I say honestly. “We’ll make sure they go on every table.”
Maeve grins, clearly pleased with herself, then turns her attention back to her masterpiece.
Mum starts refilling cups like she’s hosting a formal tea ceremony.
“You all work so hard for this event, you need your strength.” Then, her eyes narrow slightly as she turns to me.
“Lila, don’t think I haven’t noticed you barely eating today. ”
“Mum—”
She clucks her tongue, placing a bao directly on my plate. “Eat.”
Willow smothers a laugh behind her cup. Olivia shoots me a teasing look. “I think that was a direct order.”
I sigh, tearing off a piece of the bao. “You all enjoy this way too much.”
“Obviously,” Sophie quips, popping a dumpling into her mouth.
The conversation drifts as we sort through the floral arrangements for the charity event.
Mum fusses over the details, making sure the bouquets are just right, while Maeve turns her attention to the bouquets.
“Maeve, sweetheart,” Olivia says, gently prying a clump of baby’s breath from her tiny hands.
“We’re trying to make it pretty, not… abstract. ”
Maeve pouts. “But the flowers are fighting. They want to be together!”
Sophie laughs from the counter. “Future floral artist in the making. Watch out, Lila.”
I force a smile, but tension lingers beneath it. I’ve been on edge all day, ever since it arrived. The envelope with Ashcroft Holdings stamped across the front. It sits on the counter, taunting me, waiting to be opened.
Not yet.
“Lila,” Olivia calls out, pulling me from my thoughts. “We need more greenery for the centrepieces. Where’s that eucalyptus?”
I nod, grabbing a bundle from the worktable and handing it to her. “Here. You’ve got this, bossy.”
She grins. “Someone has to keep this operation running smoothly.”
Willow, ever the voice of calm reason, quietly finishes tying bows around the vases. “The gala is going to look beautiful. Sophie, your dad’s going to be so proud.”
Sophie’s smile softens. “I hope so. He’s had a rough year. This fundraiser means a lot to him.”
A pang of emotion hits me, and I’m grateful for the distraction of the flowers. I know how much this event means to Sophie, how much her dad’s battle with Parkinson’s has shaped her life. This isn’t just about raising money, it’s about hope.
“I’m glad we could help,” I say, my voice steady even though my chest tightens. “Your dad deserves a night like this.”
Sophie squeezes my hand briefly before turning back to her task.
Olivia, on the other hand, has already eyed the envelope on the counter like it’s about to explode. “Are you really going to ignore that all night?”
I glance at the envelope, my stomach twisting. “I’m thinking about it.”
“Don’t.” Olivia walks over and hands me the envelope. “Open it. Let’s see what the devil himself is up to now.”
I hesitate, fingers brushing over the paper.
“Lila?” Her voice is soft, laced with concern. “What’s going on?”
I clench my jaw. “It’s another offer.”
Mum walks over, wiping her hands on her apron. “Let me see.”
I hesitate.
But she’s already plucking the envelope from my grip, her brows knitting together as she pulls out the letter. Silence stretches as she reads, her expression shifting from confusion to shock. Her lips part slightly. “This… is more than last time.”
“How much more?” I ask, my throat suddenly dry.
Mum’s eyes flick back to the paper, scanning the numbers again like they might change. “Ten per cent more,” she says, barely above a whisper.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
The air in the cafe stills.
Willow lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s…” she struggles for the word, before settling on, “disappointing.”
My jaw clenches, heat rising up my spine. Of course, he’d do this. Ben actually thinks we’re desperate enough to take this? I should have seen it coming.
“It’s an insult,” Olivia mutters, shaking her head. “Like throwing pocket change at a problem and expecting it to go away.”
I can feel my mum’s gaze on me before she even speaks.
“It’s not… a terrible amount,” she says gently, her voice careful, her fingers smoothing over the edge of the letter. “It’s more than we’ve ever had in savings.”
A heavy pause.
My breath catches.
She’s actually considering it.
My pulse hammers in my ears. “Mum—”
She doesn’t look at me right away. Instead, her gaze drifts around the cafe, the vases lined up by the window, the shelves of ribbons and wrapping paper, the framed photos of past events we’ve catered to.
She exhales softly, and for the first time, I see it—the exhaustion settling into the lines of her face.
“I’ve been here for over twenty years, Lila,” she murmurs. “I’ve seen children grow up, get married, come back with their own families… I’ve provided flowers for weddings, funerals, new babies, every milestone, every moment.”
She trails off, her fingers pressing lightly against the counter. A sadness flickers in her eyes. “Maybe it’s time.”
No.
No, no, no.
She smiles, but it’s the kind of smile that aches.
“I love this place. I always have. But… I won’t be here forever.”
My heart stumbles.
I grip the counter, my fingers digging into the wood. “Mum—”
“I’m just saying,” she continues gently, setting the letter down like it suddenly feels heavier in her hands. “Maybe it’s time we ask ourselves how much more we can fight.”
The words hang in the air, pressing in on my ribs, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
I can’t speak.
For a second, just a second, I let myself picture it. The cafe without us. The sign coming down. The shop silent, empty, erased.
A future where this place, our place, doesn’t belong to us anymore.
Ben Ashcroft gets exactly what he wants.
The thought makes me sick.
I snatch the letter from the counter, crumpling it into my fist.
“No.” My voice is firm, steady. Final. “I don’t care how much it is. He thinks he can throw crumbs at us and we’ll take it? Screw that.”
Olivia grins. “There she is.”
Sophie shakes her head. “He really thinks he can just buy you out that easily?”
Willow, who’s been quiet up until now, frowns. “But why offer this little? If he wants the property, why low ball it?”
I inhale sharply, my anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Because he wants to see if I’ll break first.”
He’s testing me.
Seeing if I’m desperate enough and I hate that he thinks I might be.
Sophie taps her fingers against the counter, thoughtful. “And if you refuse?”
“Then he’ll increase the offer.”
We all know it.
It’s a game to him. He’s playing the long con, waiting to see when I’ll cave.
Maeve suddenly chimes in, her little voice breaking through the tension. “Are we mad at the coffee man?”
Olivia laughs, reaching over to ruffle her daughter’s curls. “Very, very mad.”
Maeve gasps dramatically. “Oh no! Should I put him in time-out?”
Sophie snorts into her tea. “Please do.”
A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of my lips.
But I don’t feel like smiling. Not really.
Because Mum is still looking at the crumpled letter in my hands, the sadness lingering in her expression and for the first time since this all started, I see it—she’s tired.
She doesn’t want to fight anymore and that?
That pisses me off more than anything.
Ben Ashcroft thinks he can come back after fifteen years and take everything from us? Thinks he can wear us down just enough to make us walk away?
He has no idea who he’s dealing with.
I straighten my spine, lifting my chin. “He can take his pathetic offer and shove it.”
I glance at my mum. “You deserve more.”
Sophie claps her hands together. “Agreed.”
Mum sighs, shaking her head at all of us. “At least finish your food before you start declaring war.”
“Auntie Mei, I finished my food!” Maeve declares, beaming up at her.
Mum laughs, cupping Maeve’s cheek fondly. “Then you’re the only one with any sense around here.”
Maeve nods proudly and goes back to drawing tulips on her charity cards.
Tulips. The symbol of hope. The flower for Parkinson’s awareness.
My gaze drifts back to my mum, to the way she watches us all with quiet warmth, to the way her hands have worn over the years from decades of working this shop.
She thinks we might have to let it go.
That we might lose.
I turn back to the letter, fingers tightening around it.
No.
Not if I have anything to say about it.
Tomorrow, I’m going to march into Ben Ashcroft’s office and make it very, very clear.
He might be willing to play dirty.
But I play to win.