Disclaimer: The author's imagination and passion are the only sources of inspiration for this novel, which is a work of dedication. Parallels between these pages and the past or present may be apparent to some readers, but they are completely coincidental. You are free to interpret this art anyway you see fit, and it is meant for your enjoyment.
The humidity of Manila usually felt like a warm, suffocating blanket, but inside L'Aube Café, the air conditioning was dialed down to a crisp, bone-chilling cold. It was Ysabella Ramirez's sanctuary. After nine hours of crunching numbers in a dull accounting firm, the scent of roasted Arabica was the only thing keeping her soul tethered to her body.
At twenty-three, Ysabella lived a life that could be described as aggressively average. She lived in a modest apartment, called her mother, Eloise, every night, and pretended her father, Christian, was just a retired clerk enjoying his pension. She purposely ignored the fact that her older brother, Mateo, lived in a fortified mansion and moved money like a grandmaster playing chess. To the world—and to her own stubborn pride—she was just Ysabella: 5'5", hazel-eyed, and fiercely, perhaps foolishly, independent.
She clutched her iced caramel macchiato, her thumb tracing the condensation on the plastic cup. Her long black hair was pulled into a neat, professional low bun, but a few stray strands framed her face, softened by the warm glow of the café's Edison bulbs.
That was when she saw them.
In the far corner of the café—a section usually reserved for quiet readers—sat a group of men who looked like they had stepped out of a high-budget action noir. They wore tailored black suits that cost more than Ysabella's annual salary. But it was the man in the center who demanded the air in the room.
He was breathtaking in a way that felt dangerous, like looking directly at a solar eclipse. He was towering, even while seated, his muscular frame stretching the fabric of his charcoal-grey suit. His hair was the color of spun gold and honey, catching the light as he leaned forward. When he turned his head, Ysabella caught the flash of piercing blue eyes—cold, crystalline, and utterly focused on the folder spread out before him.
Zayden Spencer.
She didn't know his name then. She didn't know he was the shadow king of the city's docks, or that his legal tech empire was merely a glittering veil for a world of blood and silver. She just knew he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.
She stared a second too long.
One of the men in black, a burly Filipino with a jagged scar across his knuckle, shifted his gaze toward her. Panicking, Ysabella looked down at her shoes and pivoted quickly. Her heels, worn down from a long day, hit a slick patch of floor where a barista had recently mopped.
Time slowed down.
Her foot slid. Her balance evaporated. As she lunged forward to catch herself, she didn't hit the floor. Instead, she slammed into a wall of solid, expensive-smelling muscle.
Splat.
The plastic lid of her macchiato popped off like a champagne cork. A geyser of sticky caramel, milk, and espresso erupted, painting the pristine white shirt and the light grey lapels of the man in front of her. But worse—far worse—the brown liquid cascaded directly onto the thick stack of documents laid out on the table. The ink began to bleed instantly, turning intricate diagrams and signatures into a muddy, illegible blur.
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the hum of the espresso machine seemed to die.
"What the fuck?"
The voice was deep, vibrating through Ysabella's very bones. It carried a heavy, melodic American accent, polished and sharp, but the underlying growl was pure predator.
Ysabella looked up, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Zayden Spencer was looking down at her. Up close, his beauty was terrifying. His jaw was clenched so hard a muscle leaped in his cheek. He looked at the ruined papers—the culmination of an eight-month negotiation for a cross-border smuggling route disguised as a shipping merger—and then back at the trembling girl.
"Do you have any idea," Zayden said, his voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper, "what you just did?"
The men around the table rose in unison, the fabric of their jackets shifting to reveal the unmistakable silhouettes of holstered firearms. Ysabella's eyes widened. She saw the glint of cold steel tucked into Zayden's own waistband as his jacket fell open.
The reality of the situation crashed over her. These weren't businessmen. These were monsters.
"I-I'm so sorry," she gasped, her voice trembling. "Patawad po… hindi ko sinasadya. I'll... I'll clean it!"
She reached out with a pathetic paper napkin, attempting to dab at his chest, but her hand was shaking so violently she only succeeded in smearing the caramel further into his skin.
Zayden's hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. His grip wasn't bruising, but it was absolute. His blue eyes burned with a cold, flickering rage. To Zayden, this wasn't just coffee; it was a breach of security, a failure of his perimeter, and the destruction of a multi-million-dollar deal that was supposed to be signed in ten minutes.
"You ruined it," he hissed, his American accent curling around the words. "In my world, people die for much less than this."
He wasn't joking. He had executed a subordinate three days ago for simply forgetting to encrypt a thumb drive. To Zayden Spencer, inefficiency was a sin punishable by death. He looked at her neck, thinking how easy it would be to have his men take her to the back alley and silence the witness to his frustration.
But then, a sound he detested broke the air.
A sob.
Ysabella's hazel eyes flooded with tears. They spilled over her lashes, hot and fast, tracing the light dusting of freckles on her cheeks. Her bottom lip wobbled, and she let out a small, broken whimper of pure, unadulterated terror.
"Please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I just wanted coffee. I'm sorry, sir. Please don't kill me."
Zayden froze.
He was a man who dealt in fear, but this was different. This wasn't the calculated pleading of a rival or the stoic silence of a soldier. This was raw, feminine distress. Memories of his mother, Elena, flickered in his mind—the way she had raised him in a world of violence to never, under any circumstances, lay a hand on a woman in malice. "Ang tunay na lalaki, Zayden, ay marunong rumespeto sa babae," she used to tell him in her soft, firm Tagalog.
He looked at Ysabella—really looked at her. She was small, drowning in her oversized office blazer, smelling like caramel and panic.
Zayden released her wrist abruptly and pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as if to ward off a headache.
"Tangina," he cursed under his breath, the Tagalog slipping out with a rough, frustrated edge. "Ayaw kong may umiiyak sa harapan ko."
His men exchanged confused glances. The Zayden Spencer they knew didn't pause for tears.
"Clean this up," Zayden barked at his subordinates, gesturing vaguely at the table, though they all knew the documents were a total loss. He turned his gaze back to Ysabella, who was currently biting her soft, pinkish lip in an attempt to stifle her sobbing.
The movement caught his eye. Her lips were stained slightly by her lipstick, trembling and vulnerable. For a fleeting second, the cold, calculated part of Zayden's brain was replaced by a strange, sharp hunger. He realized he was staring, his eyes tracking the way her breath hitched.
Ysabella, sensing his gaze, looked down, and her eyes landed on the grip of the pistol tucked into his suit. She let out a fresh gasp of air, her knees buckling slightly.
"I... Can I pay for the papers?" she offered weakly, knowing full well she couldn't afford a ream of high-quality bond paper, let alone whatever was written on them.
Zayden let out a short, dark laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Pay for them? Sweetheart, you couldn't afford the ink on the first page if you worked ten lifetimes."
He stepped closer, invading her personal space until she was backed against the edge of a nearby table. He was so tall that she had to crane her neck back to see him. The scent of him—expensive cologne, tobacco, and something metallic—overwhelmed the scent of the spilled coffee.
"Who are you?" he demanded. "Who sent you? Was it the Yakuza? Or are you one of the Governor's little spies?"
"I'm... I'm just Ysabella," she squeaked. "I work at an accounting firm. I don't know any governors! I just wanted a macchiato!"
Zayden leaned in, his face inches from hers. He searched her eyes for the tell-tale flicker of a lie, the practiced mask of an assassin. But he found nothing but honest, blinding fear and a hint of that stubbornness he hadn't noticed before.
"Ysabella," he repeated, the name sounding strange and heavy in his American accent. He reached out, his thumb grazing her chin, forcing her to keep eye contact. "You have no idea what kind of fire you just stepped into."
"I'm sorry," she whispered again, her voice trembling.
Zayden felt a tug of something he couldn't identify. Annoyance? Curiosity? He shouldn't let her go. She had seen his face, seen his men, and ruined a deal that would have consolidated his power in the North. But as she stood there, shaking and small, he knew he couldn't hurt her. Not here. Not like this.
"Get out," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
"P-po?"
"I said, Get out! Before I change my mind and decide your life is worth less than those papers!"
Ysabella didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed her bag, nearly tripping over her own feet, and bolted for the door. She didn't look back, not even when she burst out into the humid Manila evening, her heart racing so fast she thought she might faint.
Inside the café, Zayden stood motionless, watching her retreating figure through the glass.
"Boss?" the scarred man asked, stepping forward.
"Should we... take care of her? She saw the papers. She saw the meeting."
Zayden looked at the brown stain on his shirt, then at the door where the girl had disappeared. He thought of her hazel eyes, wide and wet with tears, and the way she had looked at him—not with the worship he was used to, but with genuine terror.
"No," Zayden said, his voice cold again, though his mind was racing. "Find out who she is. I want everything. Her address, her family, her blood type. No one ruins a Spencer deal and just walks away."
He looked down at his hand—the one that had touched her chin. He could still feel the softness of her skin.
"Especially not a girl who cries that beautifully."
As his men scrambled to follow his orders, Zayden pulled out his phone and dialed a number. His mind was already moving three steps ahead. He didn't know that Ysabella was the sister of Mateo Ramirez. He didn't know that by chasing her, he was about to start a war with the one man who could match his shadow empire.
All he knew was that for the first time in years, Zayden Spencer was interested in something other than power.