AYLA
The shrill vibration of my phone shattered the silence in the bus. I rummaged through my bag and pulled out my phone. I stared awkwardly at the caller ID.
Mrs Vine.
I sent in my resignation six days ago. So why was she calling? It wasn't the end of the month yet or they wanted to have my balance transferred already?
I picked up slowly.
"Good morning, Mrs. Vine," I mumbled.
"Morning, Ayla. Busy morning already?"
Of course! I rolled my eyes.
"Yeah. Why?"
A tense silence followed.
"Lady Moretti said you're not getting paid for the days you worked for resigning abruptly."
I felt rage simmer in my veins. Cancelling abruptly?
"Wasn't she going to have me fired anyway?" I snapped, trying to keep my voice low.
"I'm sorry, dear. I know how much you needed the money." Mrs. Vine said, softly.
"No, you don't." I muttered, feeling a nerve-crawling pain that made my eyes sting with tears.
I blinked back the tears.
"It's not your fault. You don't have to apologize." I said, "Thanks for letting me know."
"Call me if you need anything," Mrs Vine's motherly affection was making me want to fucking cry and made me mad.
Of course she knew I'd never call. I'd been raised to never ask for favours from people, and I hated receiving favours. Because, somehow, those favors made you indebted—It was never talked about but you'd eventually learn.
I didn't respond. I ended the call.
I breathed in, pushed air out through my mouth and tried to calm myself.
This was just one of those things. Life happened, right?. I wasn't going to be life's victim.
Certainly not today!
My father hadn't raised a weak girl. Wills Thorne may not be a perfect father but he'd made me see life for what it was since I was a little girl.
People with money, made people like us—broke and desperate —to lick asses. They would make us feel worthless every chance they had.
So the goal had always been to make money. So much money. Zillions of it. And to stay untouchable.
I didn't have fancy clothes or shoes, not because I didn't want them, but because I only bought what I could afford.
I stayed off social media. I tried to avoid distractions and that's why Millie's my only friend and my best friend. Plus, she understands me.
My phone beeped. A reminder to visit the hospital tomorrow—I'd promised Dr. Dray I would come up with some money for dad's meds.
I pushed my lower lip between my teeth, exhaling sharply.
Strong girls don't crack. You don't crack under pressure, Ayla.
The bus pulled up and I came down.
I stood in front of the staff locker mirror, tying my apron, willing my mind to behave—to stop wandering back to Cassian Moretti and the tempting offer he'd made.
"You're early today," Ricco, my manager, said, eyeing me with suspicion.
I knew what he was thinking.
After playing the part of a spoiled street brat, I couldn't expect much else.
"Good morning to you too, Ricco."
The other coffee girls took their places at the counter. Mora, my colleague and office buddy, was off today.
I ducked into the changing room and came out a minute later.
"You look pale. Hangover problems?" Sally said the moment I reappeared.
I shot her a glare. "Mind your business."
She lifted both hands. "I'm just showing concern. You look like a stray cat."
I rolled my eyes.
Enough of people minding my business.
A sharp tinge of fury bloomed at Sally's words.
I clipped my name tag onto my T-shirt.
The door of the coffee shop chimed.
And even with my eyes down, I could feel the air shift.
I didn't look up. Not yet.
Morning customers were normal and predictable—nothing out of the ordinary.
But the sudden shift in the room wasn't.
The hush.
The quiet whispers.
Tension that didn't belong in a regular neighborhood coffee shop.
"Are you listening?" Sally's voice cut into my thoughts.
Pressing two fingers to my brows, I sighed. "Not exactly."
"Ricco wants you taking orders," she said, sliding past me with a tray of freshly baked casseroles.
"The peace-wrecking arsehole," I muttered, lifting my gaze—expecting calm, sanity, and a fleeting moment of peace.
I looked around, and my stomach dipped.
My pulse fluttered.
Seated in the far corner of the café was the brown eye demigod I'd bumped into at C-M HOLDINGS.
Had Cassian Moretti sent him? Was he here to stalk me?
Ugh, get a grip, Ayla!
I was probably overthinking the whole thing. Right?
Wrong.
My father's golden rule was simple: Never ignore your gut feeling. NEVER
A part of my brain could tell his hazel eyes were nothing but trouble—the kind of calm trouble that looked like luxury bathed in mischief. A very immiscible combo.
Maybe this was all a coincidence. He couldn't have remembered me.
Nothing more. It couldn't be anything other than a coincidence.
But when his eyes lifted, almost the same second I looked at him, I felt my lungs choke with air.
This was no coincidence.
His gaze didn't widen. It didn't soften. Those eyes simply acknowledged me like he'd waited for me to notice him.
I turned away, grabbing my order pad and pretending I didn't notice him.
But the heat crawling up my cheek was instant and harsh.
"Ayla," Ricco nudged me, "you're waiting on table nine. He requested you."
The pen in my hand dropped to the floor—table nine was him.
"There are other tables…"
Casting me a cold stern, "he requested you," Ricco interjected flatly. "And you have eyes to see. You don't argue with people like that"
I knew exactly what he meant.
Exhaling sharply, I kept my expression neutral and walked to his table, one step at a time, feeling the weight of his gaze on me.
What was he doing here?
Why here?
He glanced up, a corky smile played at his lips.
"Hello, there."