The Latte Princess

CHAPTER 1

Betty

The woman standing at my counter had the kind of haircut that screamed "I need to speak to your manager" and the attitude to match. She'd been here for exactly seven minutes (not that I was counting) complaining about the temperature of her skinny vanilla latte.

"This is clearly not hot enough," she announced, sliding the cup back across the counter like it had personally offended her ancestors. "I specifically asked for extra hot."

I picked up the cup, feeling the heat radiating through the ceramic. This thing could melt steel. "I can certainly remake it for you."

"I don't want it remade. I want it fixed. There's a difference."

Right. Because apparently, I was supposed to wave my magic barista wand and transform hot coffee into molten lava.

The line behind her was growing longer by the minute, and I could see my manager Derek lurking near the espresso machine with that particular scowl that meant my day was about to get worse.

"Of course. Let me just steam the milk a bit more for you.

" I grabbed the cup and headed back to the machine, biting back the dozen sarcastic responses fighting for freedom.

Like how maybe if she didn't spend five minutes stirring in packets of stevia, her coffee wouldn't have time to cool down.

Or how the laws of physics weren't actually my responsibility.

The woman tapped her manicured nails against the counter while I worked. "You know, at the Starbucks downtown, they understand customer service."

Then maybe you should go there, I thought, forcing my customer service smile to stay in place. "Here you go. Extra hot, just how you like it."

She took a tentative sip, paused dramatically, then nodded like she'd just granted me the privilege of existing. "Better. Though next time, I shouldn't have to ask twice."

She left without tipping. Naturally.

"Montclair." Derek's voice cut across the café like a rusty blade. "You're moving too slowly. We've got twelve people in line and you're babying every customer."

I glanced at the clock. We'd been open for less than an hour, and I'd already served at least twenty customers. But Derek had mastered the art of making every interaction feel like a personal failure on my part.

"Sorry. She wanted her drink remade."

"I don't care what she wanted. Move faster or find another job."

The threat hung in the air between us. Derek loved that threat. He pulled it out at least three times a week, usually when I had to stay quiet because there were customers watching. The man had turned workplace intimidation into an art form.

I bit my tongue and turned back to the next customer in line. A regular, thank God. Mrs. Lawrence always ordered the same thing: medium dark roast, no room for cream. Simple. Uncomplicated. The kind of order that wouldn't give Derek another reason to question my employment status.

"Morning, Mrs. Lawrence. The usual?"

"Please, dear. And don't let the bastards grind you down."

I smiled as I poured her coffee. Mrs. Lawrence came in every morning, and she tipped well even when all I did was pour coffee from a pot. If I ever won the lottery, I was going to buy this place just so I could fire Derek and give Mrs. Lawrence free coffee for life.

The morning rush continued with its usual blend of caffeine desperation and workplace drama.

Orders blurred together: caramel macchiato with an extra shot, iced coffee with oat milk, a "dirty chai" which sounded vaguely inappropriate but was actually only a shot of espresso in a chai tea.

Yes, I know chai means tea. Get off my back already.

I fell into the rhythm of grinding, steaming, and pouring, letting muscle memory take over while my brain went on autopilot. I served eighteen more customers without incident, which was some kind of record because Derek actually nodded approvingly when I handed him the till count at ten-fifteen.

That's when I noticed the woman with the laptop.

She'd been sitting at the corner table for at least an hour, nursing the same cappuccino while typing occasionally on her computer.

Nothing unusual about that. Half of our customers treated the place like their personal office.

But something about her was different. The way she positioned herself to have a clear view of the entire café.

The way her attention kept drifting from her screen to the counter where I was working.

Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe too many true crime podcasts had finally rotted my brain.

"Earth to Betty." Derek's voice snapped me back to reality. "Customer's waiting."

I looked up to see a guy in his twenties holding out a fifty-dollar bill with an expectant expression. Right. I'd been making his order on autopilot while obsessing over Laptop Lady.

"Sorry. Medium cappuccino, right."

"Large," he corrected. "With extra foam."

Of course it was. I finished his drink, took his money, and tried to shake off the weird feeling that I was being watched.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Laptop Lady was now standing at the counter with a man who looked like he could bench press a small car. He wore a dark suit that screamed government agent or private security, and his expression suggested he took his job very seriously.

Great. Now I was definitely paranoid.

"Can I help you?" I asked, falling back on customer service mode.

"We need to speak with you," the woman said. Her accent was faint but definitely European. "Privately."

I glanced around the café. Derek was restocking cups near the register, close enough to hear every word. The morning crowd was finally thinning out, but there were still a handful of customers scattered around the tables.

"I'm working right now," I said. "Would you like to order something?"

"This isn't about coffee," the man interrupted. His voice carried the same hint of an accent. "We're here about you, Miss Montclair."

A chill ran down my spine. They knew my name. That couldn't be good.

"My name is Captain Mireille Steiner, and this is Lieutenant Commander Dominic Vasseur. We represent the Royal Security Service of Valdoria."

I stared at them for a long moment. "The Royal Security Service of what now?"

"Valdoria," Captain Steiner repeated. "We need to discuss your heritage. Your royal heritage."

The laughter bubbled up before I could stop it. Royal heritage. Right. And I was also secretly a wizard who just hadn't gotten my Hogwarts letter yet.

"Okay, this is definitely a prank," I said, looking around for hidden cameras. "Let me guess. Is this for some YouTube channel? The 'Let's Mess with the Poor Barista' show."

Neither of them cracked a smile. Not even a twitch.

"Miss Montclair," Captain Steiner said, "we need to discuss your real heritage."

The laughter died in my throat. These people were serious. Dead serious.

"I think you've got the wrong person," I said slowly. "I'm just Betty Montclair from Oregon. I make coffee and go to community college part-time. There's been some kind of mistake."

"There's been no mistake," Vasseur said. "We've been searching for you for a very long time."

Derek chose that moment to insert himself into the conversation, because of course he did. "Hey, whatever this is about, you need to wait until closing time. She's supposed to be working."

Captain Steiner turned to look at Derek, and something in her expression made him take a step back. It was the kind of look that said she'd eaten scarier things than him for breakfast.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm her manager. And I'm telling you to move along before I call the cops."

"You won't be calling anyone," she said calmly. "This is official business."

Derek puffed out his chest like an angry rooster. "Official business. I've never heard of Valdoria, lady. You can't just walk in here claiming to be from some made-up country and not order something."

"Valdoria is not made-up," Lieutenant Commander Vasseur said. His tone suggested Derek had just insulted his mother, his grandmother, and his entire ancestral line. "It's a sovereign duchy in Europe with a population of eighty-five thousand and a GDP that would make your entire state envious."

"Prove it," Derek sneered.

One of the customers, a college kid with his laptop open, looked up from his screen. "Holy crap, they're right. Valdoria's totally real. It's between France and Switzerland. Says here they're famous for wine and banking."

I could have kissed that kid. Not romantically. Just out of sheer gratitude for the way Derek's face went from smug to confused to mortified in about three seconds flat.

"I don't care if it's on Wikipedia," Derek sputtered. "These people are disrupting my business."

"Actually," Captain Steiner interrupted, "we'd like to speak with Miss Montclair alone. If you think your business is being disrupted, you can wait on the customers while we're talking."

I looked back and forth between them, my brain struggling to process what was happening. "Look, I appreciate the whole international intrigue thing, but I really can't lose this job. Whatever you think I've done, it wasn't me."

"You haven't done anything wrong," she assured me. "But we do need to talk. How much do you make here annually?"

The question caught me off guard. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Your salary. How much?"

"I don't see how that's any of your business," I said defensively. Then, because she was still staring at me with those intense eyes: "Thirty thousand. I know it's not much, but it helps me save for school while I live with my parents."

Something passed between the two officers. A look I couldn't read.

"Those aren't your parents," Lieutenant Commander Vasseur said.

My head whirled. "Excuse me?"

Captain Steiner shot her partner a sharp look that clearly said, "we talked about this."

"What he means is..."