Chapter 3 Echoes in the Afternoon
Isabella’s POV
We settled beneath the wide branches of an old oak tree, the grass cool and soft beneath us. I unwrapped my sandwich—turkey and avocado on rye—and took a slow bite, letting the quiet finally sink into my bones.
Three weeks.
Three long weeks of nonstop shifts at the café.
Three weeks since that morning.
Three weeks since Alexander Kingsley’s fingers had wrapped around my wrist and turned my brain into static.
He hadn’t come back since.
And while I’d tried to bury the memory under double shots of espresso and mindless customer chatter, his absence had left behind a strange kind of silence.
A loud one.
The kind that gnawed at you.
But today I was determined to ignore it and enjoy lunch with Sarah.
She was sprawled beside me on the grass, attacking a chocolate croissant with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t eaten in six months.
“Finally,” she sighed dramatically, brushing flakes of pastry from her lap before taking a long sip of iced coffee. “No espresso machines screaming. No customers snapping their fingers at us like we’re trained circus animals.”
She leaned back.
“Just food. Sunlight. And peace.”
“Amen,” I said around a bite of sandwich, resting my head against the rough bark of the tree.
“I was about two lattes away from staging a dramatic walkout and changing my name to something unsearchable.”
Sarah snorted.
A comfortable silence settled between us.
Until my gaze drifted across the street.
Right toward the Monolith Hotel.
The place looked like it had been built purely to remind the rest of the city that money existed. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Polished steel. The architectural equivalent of flipping the world a middle finger made of diamonds.
And right then…
He stepped out through the revolving doors.
Alexander Kingsley.
My breath caught before I could stop it.
I quickly took another bite of my sandwich, chewing like nothing had happened—even though the bread suddenly tasted like cardboard.
He looked exactly the same.
Tall. Controlled. Effortlessly intimidating.
His dark suit fit like it had been tailored onto him with surgical precision. His stride had that same quiet confidence that made people instinctively move out of his path.
Like a predator crossing open ground.
But he wasn’t alone.
A woman clung to his arm.
She was stunning—tall, elegant, magazine-cover beautiful. The kind of woman who probably had her own personal lighting crew following her around.
Her laugh drifted faintly across the street as she leaned closer to him.
Her hand slid casually along his sleeve.
Something unpleasant twisted low in my stomach.
Sarah followed my stare.
Her lips curved immediately.
“Well, well, well,” she said, watching as Alexander opened the door of a sleek black limousine for the woman.
The car looked expensive enough to buy our entire café.
“Guess that explains why Mr. Ice King hasn’t been haunting our coffee shop lately.”
She smirked.
“Looks like he’s been… busy.”
I forced my gaze away as the limousine pulled into traffic.
“Looks like he has a type,” I muttered, aiming for dry and missing by a mile.
“Rich and flawless. What a shock.”
Sarah scooted closer, bumping my elbow hard enough to slosh my drink.
“Aww,” she teased. “Someone sounds a little pouty.”
“I am not pouty.”
“You’re definitely pouty.”
“I am not,” I insisted, even though my pulse had started doing a very suspicious little dance.
She popped another piece of croissant into her mouth.
“Mmm-hmm. Sure you’re not.”
She swallowed.
“Face it, Bella. You’re just annoyed your mysterious billionaire crush has a girlfriend.”
“I do not have a crush on him,” I snapped.
The lie tasted like burnt espresso.
Sarah grinned like she’d just won the lottery.
“Oh really?”
I leaned back on my elbows and stared up through the oak branches.
“Look,” I said, trying to sound logical. “I have functioning eyeballs and a working pulse. The man is objectively gorgeous. I’m not blind.”
Sarah waited.
“And yes,” I added, gesturing vaguely toward the hotel, “he has the kind of face that could probably cause minor traffic accidents. And a body that looks like it belongs in a museum. Preferably under the label ‘Greek God.’”
She said nothing.
I kept going.
“But liking the way someone looks isn’t the same as liking them.”
Sarah lifted one brow.
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s aesthetic appreciation,” I said firmly.
“Like admiring a sunset.”
Sarah snorted.
“Or an extremely expensive cake.”
She nodded slowly.
“Still waiting for the part where you convince me.”
I sat up suddenly.
“Why would I have a crush on someone who can’t even say hello?”
Sarah smirked.
“He orders coffee like a medieval warlord,” I continued, warming up now. “Not once has he said ‘Hi,’ ‘Good morning,’ or even a polite ‘Can I please have a black coffee?’”
I waved my hands dramatically.
“Nope. Just ‘Black coffee.’ Like he’s issuing battlefield commands.”
Sarah bit into her croissant, watching me like a documentary narrator observing wildlife.
“And the way he looks at me?” I continued. “Like he’s deciding whether to murder me or buy the entire café just to fire me personally.”
I pointed a finger at the air.
“Would it kill him to say hello?”
Sarah stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
I groaned.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I’m not looking at you like anything.”
“You absolutely are.”
She took another slow bite.
I threw my hands up.
“Fine! You win!”
She perked up instantly.
“Yes, I think he’s hot. Devastatingly hot. But that’s it.”
I crossed my arms.
“I hate his personality. He’s rude. Arrogant. And he acts like the rest of us are background characters in The Alexander Kingsley Experience.”
Sarah burst out laughing.
“Finally,” she said between breaths. “Honesty.”
Then she leaned closer.
“But let’s skip to the real question.”
My stomach tightened.
“What question?”
She grinned.
“Whether you want to sleep with him.”
“Sarah!”
“Come on,” she said, laughing. “I’ve seen the way you look at his hands.”
I immediately regretted every life choice that had led to this friendship.
“Whether you want to date him or not is irrelevant,” she continued.
“The point is—you’re starving for him.”
“Shut up,” I muttered.
She only laughed harder.
“I would never date someone like that,” I insisted. “I have at least a tiny shred of self-respect.”
Even if he did look like he could ruin my life and I’d send him a thank-you card.
Sarah studied me for a long moment.
“You sure about that?”
“I’m sure.”
I gestured to my barista-stained jeans.
“He lives in penthouses and boardrooms. I scrub espresso foam off counters and pray my car starts in the morning.”
She shrugged.
“So?”
“He dates women like her,” I said, nodding toward where the limo had disappeared.
“Perfect. Polished. Probably born with a trust fund.”
Sarah scoffed loudly.
“Bella, have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Sarah—”
“No, seriously,” she continued. “You’re gorgeous. Smart. And you have enough fire to burn down his entire penthouse.”
I groaned and covered my face.
“Oh my God.”
“You’re not out of his league,” she said.
“If anything…”
She leaned closer.
“You’re the only person he actually looks at.”
I peeked at her through my fingers.
“You really think so?”
She nodded.
“I do.”
Then her expression turned thoughtful.
“But the real question is… do you actually want him?”
She tilted her head.
“Especially if the rumors are true.”
“What rumors?”
“That he might be connected to… certain people.”
I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, shaking my head so hard my messy bun finally gave up the ghost and collapsed onto my shoulder.
“Sarah, seriously, we’re adults. Do you really believe that crap? It’s ridiculous. I don’t buy it for a second. Is he a high-powered shark who thinks smiling is a sign of weakness? Absolutely. Does he look at people like he’s mentally checking them into a morgue when they annoy him? Sure.
But come on , mafia? People love to invent ‘Godfather’ backstories for anyone who looks that lethal in a three-piece suit. He’s just a rich jerk with a personality disorder, not a criminal.”
She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in that way that always made me itch. “What if it’s true, though?”
“It’s not,” I muttered, standing up and dusting the grass from my jeans with shaky fingers. I checked my watch and my stomach did a triple backflip.
“Oh shit, we’re ten minutes late! Let’s go back before Thompson has a total coronary and fires us both. I am not losing my job because we spent lunch debating whether Alexander Kingsley secretly runs the mafia.”