As Sasha walked back toward the counter, Anna and I stayed hidden in the kitchen, but let’s be honest, of course we popped our heads out just a tiny bit—okay, maybe more than a little.

We peeked like nosy pigeons behind the door, barely breathing, ears on full alert. It had gotten so quiet in the café that even the fridge hum felt loud. Every word echoed like we were front row at a drama premiere.

Ronan leaned back in his chair like a marble statue with a pulse, arms folded, jaw looking sharp enough to cut glass. His icy, direct gaze was right at Bianca.

“So. I think this date is going pretty well, don’t you think?” Bianca began, twirling a golden strand of her hair with her manicured finger, giving him the kind of smile that could melt a popsicle in December.

Wait. Hold up.
A date? Since when was this a date? Did I miss a memo?

Ronan’s brow pinched as if her words personally offended his soul. His voice dropped to that no-nonsense tone. “This isn’t a date, Bianca. We are just here to meet up.”

Okay. I judged too quickly. My bad.

Bianca, though.. was totally unbothered. She leaned forward like she owned the moment, chin propped up on her palm, a little smirk on her lips. “Oh, come on, Ronan. Don’t be so stiff. We were set up for a reason. Your mom thinks we’d make a great match.”

Ronan’s jaw locked—and I mean, I could see the tick from behind the door. His glare sharpened like a dagger. “That woman has no idea what I want, and frankly, neither do you.”

Still, Bianca pressed on, sipping her coffee, her lashes fluttering. “You’ll come around. I mean, look at us, we’d make such a power couple. You’re the brooding CEO, and I’m the glamorous socialite. It’s perfect.”

Ronan’s eyes turned into glaciers. “The only thing perfect about this situation is how quickly it’s going to end. I don’t want a ‘power couple.’ I don’t even want to be here.”

Bianca pouted like a little girl who got the wrong Barbie set, but still didn’t back down. She cut a bite of pastry with the delicacy of someone expecting a Michelin star experience, popped it into her mouth..

...and then it happened.

Her face twisted like she just bit into a lemon covered in disappointment. She spat the poor pastry into a napkin like it betrayed her family.

Oh no.

“Oh my god!” She shrieked, standing up so fast her chair screeched behind her. Her hands slammed onto the table with a drama.

At the counter, Cassie visibly tensed. She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath, her fists slowly curling at her sides like she was channeling every ounce of restraint not to throw something sharp.

“This is awful! Who made this? It’s way too sweet. Do they not know how unhealthy this is?” Bianca snapped, pointing at the pastry like it had personally offended her gym trainer.

I looked at Anna and—oh sweet marshmallows—that girl looked scared. Her eyes were wide, her hands frozen on the edge of the door, and she was pale. Like, baking-powder pale, and I could feel it in my chest too. That pastry? Anna made it. Her little heart was in it.

Sasha bolted forward, hands raised in classic customer-service damage control. “I’m so sorry about that, ma’am. I can—”

“I don’t want your excuses. I want to know who made this garbage. Who’s responsible?” Bianca shot back like some unhinged dessert detective.

Cassie, my beloved volcano of a woman, stormed forward, her expression thunderous. “Listen, lady, if you don’t like it, you can leave. No one’s forcing you to eat here.”

“Cassie, stop.” Myra’s voice cut in, calm and authoritative as she grabbed Cassie’s arm, pulling her gently back before she could go full nuclear.

Meanwhile, Ronan rubbed his temples like the headache had just filed a complaint. “For god’s sake, this woman.” He muttered, low and dark. His glare slashed toward Bianca, sharp enough to silence armies.

But she was off in her own drama, voice climbing octaves. “I’m not sitting down until I know who thought this sugar bomb was edible!”

“I think I should go,” Anna whispered, barely audible. Her voice was shaky. I reached for her wrist, but she slipped out of my grasp and walked out.

My heart cracked. I wanted to chase her. Yell at Bianca. Scream for Anna. Or maybe just throw that pastry into Bianca’s perfect face.

So I did. Well—not the pastry part, but I did follow Anna. My strides were purposeful, energy raging. My eyes shimmered with this quiet fire, I wasn’t going to let some rich snob take away Anna's pride.

Anna tried to compose herself, that sweet girl. Plastered on a polite smile like it was armor. I could see the anxiety bubbling beneath it. “I.. I made the pastry. It’s a signature recipe, actually. Most of our customers seem to enjoy it. Perhaps it’s not to your taste, and I’m sorry for that.” Her voice was soft, kind.

Bianca turned, her gaze swept over Anna like she was nothing more than a crumb on her fancy clutch. “Well, maybe your customers have no taste because this is disgusting.”

I blinked. Oh no she didn’t.

I felt Anna flinch infront of me, her shoulders curling inward, her fingers playing with the hem of her apron like she could disappear inside it.

That broke me. I stepped forward before I even realized it, putting myself right between Anna and the fashionista from hell. “Are you even listening to yourself? A pastry is supposed to be sweet. It’s a dessert. If you wanted bland, you should’ve ordered a salad.”

Yeah. I said it.

Ronan’s head snapped up like I’d just shattered his concentration. His brows pulled together, deepening in frown. His eyes locked on me, cold and calculating—and for a second, just a second, something flickered there.

But surely he didn’t like what he heard.
And I could care less.

Bianca folded her arms, her lips pursed and her voice oozing with venom, “Your attitude matches your café... awful.”

I stepped forward again. “And your manners match your personality... nonexistent. You’re throwing a tantrum over a piece of cake like a spoiled brat!”

Silence dropped as Anna reached out immediately, whispering my name in panic, as she tugged my arm gently. Her eyes were darting all around, worried, sweet, still so soft even after everything.

But me? I stood tall. Because no one—no one—talks to my girl like that. Not in my café. Not on my watch.

But Bianca started, “How dare you—"

“How dare I?” I echoed, loud. “You come into our café, insult her work, and expect me to stand here and take it?” I stepped closer, not even blinking. I swear my hand twitched a little, the tiniest pulse of energy screaming to shove her.

But before I could do something dramatic—and deeply satisfying—Sasha slid in like the responsible older sister of chaos. “Aria, don’t.” Her hand landed on my shoulder, grounding me with calm, quiet authority.

Classic Sasha—level-headed, even when I was five seconds away from going full buttercream brawl. Cassie was total opposite. She was in the corner trying not to cackle, her lips twitching like she was two seconds from giving me a standing ovation. Love that woman.

Bianca scoffed, folding her arms like a villainous housewife. “Pathetic,” she hissed under her breath, clearly hoping it would land like a dagger.

But maybe she didn't see her boyfriend coming. His chair scraped against the floor with an intensity that demanded silence. Everyone turned. Even me.

Ronan rose to his full height with a storm building behind his eyes. No words, no drama—just that cold, silent power. He reached for her wrist firmly, and without saying a single syllable, he dragged her toward the door.

Bianca flailed a little, muttering protests as her heels clacked helplessly across the floor. But Ronan didn’t even look back. He pulled her straight through the entrance and out into the street like he was taking out the trash.

And just like that.. silence.

For one glorious, frosted moment, the café was completely still. The scent of coffee beans and fresh scones hung in the air like nothing had happened.

“Good riddance to that bitch!” Cassie barked, throwing her hands in the air. “I swear, I’ve never seen anyone so entitled.”

Myra groaned. “You’re going to get us in trouble with your mouth, Cass.”

Cassie flipped her hair dramatically. “Who the hell complains about a pastry being sweet? What did she expect? A kale muffin?”

I choked on a laugh as she stomped over to Anna, who looked like she’d just come back from emotional war.

“Don’t be sad, my baby,” Cassie cooed in the most fake-soothing voice I’d ever heard. “Mommy’s got your back.” She yanked Anna into this massive, over-the-top hug and started patting her head like she was a five-year-old.

Anna squirmed, her cheeks flushing crimson. “Cassie, stop it!”

I let out a long, dramatic huff and dragged my hands down my face, “Unbelievable.” Because truly—only this café could swing from pastry-fueled combat to group therapy cuddles in thirty seconds.

“Wait..” Sasha said suddenly, her voice cutting through our little circus. She froze, eyes narrowing toward Bianca’s abandoned table.

My stomach did this weird flip. “What?” I asked, arching a brow, already bracing for the next round of chaos.

Sasha pointed at the now-empty table, her eyes wide. “Did they just leave without paying?”

“You’re kidding me!” I gasped.

Cassie whipped around so fast, her braid nearly smacked Myra. “Are you serious? Those assholes! Not only did she insult our food, but she walked out on the bill?” Her hands were on her hips.

A groan slipped my throat, as I dragged my fingers down my face and then flicking my hand toward the door like I could slap Bianca through memory. “I swear, if that woman ever shows her face here aga—she’s lucky her boyfriend dragged her out. Or she wouldn’t have left in one piece.”

And just like that, the girls lost it.

Laughter broke through the café like sunlight through storm clouds. Cassie snorted so hard she bent over, while Sasha chuckled shaking her head.

The evening had long surrendered to the darkness of the night. The moon hung low in the sky, partially veiled by thin clouds, casting a pale, silvery glow over the sleepy streets. The soft hum of street lamps buzzed in the distance.

The roads were nearly empty, save for the occasional car that sped by, its headlights cutting clean through the dark.

I stood by the entrance, fingers curled around the keys that jingled softly as I twisted the lock. Click. Tug. All clear. The little ‘CLOSED’ sign swayed gently inside the glass, catching the faintest glimmer of moonlight like a sleepy wink.

“Night, Aria!” Sasha’s voice rang out, as she wrapped her coat tighter around her petite frame, her boots clicking confidently toward her car.

“See you tomorrow!” Myra added, tossing me a quick smile before vanishing down the sidewalk like a soft breeze.

Cassie, of course, wasn’t done being loud. “Make sure you get home safe, bitch!” she hollered, full volume and zero shame, throwing me a dramatic wave like she was bidding farewell from a Broadway stage.

Before I could even respond, Anna rolled her eyes, exasperated but affectionate. She reached out and gave Cassie a quick smack on the butt. “Stop talking like that,” she scolded, more mom-mode than mad.

Cassie let out a cartoonish yelp, rubbing the spot. “Oh, the betrayal,” she groaned, shooting me a playful pout that had me laughing before I could stop myself. She slid into the driving seat, still rubbing her behind like the drama queen she was.

Anna climbed into Cassie's car, their shared ride a routine comfort. Living in the same neighborhood had turned their commutes into a tradition, one filled with lively chatter and occasional bickering.

“Good night, guys. See you tomorrow!” I muttered with a little wave, watching their car fade down the street until the soft glow of their taillights disappeared into the night.

I sighed, slipping the café keys into my coat pocket, fingers brushing against the soft fabric lining. The cold nipped at my cheeks as I turned on my heel, ready to head to my car—

A sharp jolt of fear pulsed through my chest as my eyes landed on a figure lurking near the edge of the café’s shadow. My body flinched before I could even think, a tiny, startled squeak escaping my lips as I stumbled one step back.

There—standing half-shrouded in the dim light—was a man. Tall. Dressed in dark clothing that seemed to soak up the surrounding shadows. The faint glow of the streetlamp barely touched his face, but it was enough.

It was him.
Ronan Diaz.

His gaze locked onto mine with such a quiet, unblinking intensity, I felt it in my spine. He didn’t move. His hands were tucked neatly into the pockets of his coat, his posture relaxed but unreadable.

Ronan Diaz—the man people whispered about even when he wasn’t around. At thirty, he was the CEO of his father’s company, a name that carried weight and reputation. He wasn’t just respected—he was untouchable.

His expression, like always, gave nothing away. He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. He was just like a marble carved into human form. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he said suddenly, his deep voice slicing through the silence like a clean edge.

I shivered. Not from the cold, but from an unfamiliar ripple that tightened in my chest. His words weren’t comforting. They weren’t even kind. Just stated. Like he was reading a line from a script without caring who wrote it.

My initial panic quickly melted into a different kind of rush—a sudden, bubbling annoyance that pulsed in my temples. My brows pulled together as I met his gaze, my heartbeat beginning to settle.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I snapped before I could stop myself, the words were sharper than usual, from the sheer disbelief of it all.

Before I could say more, his voice sliced clean through mine—low and steely. “I’m here to pay the bill.” He shifted ever so slightly, straightening his posture.

His hand moved with calm, mechanical precision, slipping into his back pocket to pull out a sleek leather wallet. “May I know how much it is?” That voice had a thin thread of irritation, like even he knew this situation was absurd and yet here he was, anyway.

I crossed my arms tight against my chest, pressing my lips together in a firm, unimpressed line. I could feel my expression harden. “Seriously? You’re here at this hour to pay a bill?”

“How much?” His gaze didn’t waver. Just sharp and focused like I was a stubborn equation he couldn’t solve.

I huffed, my breath coming out in a small, frustrated cloud in the chill. “Twelve dollars and fifty cents.” I bit out the amount, my tone as flat as I could manage.

He just pulled out a crisp twenty-dollar bill and held it out with the same indifference he carried into every space.

I snatched it from his hand, the movement brisk and clipped as I tugged my wallet from my bag. Coins clinked softly as I counted out the change, my fingers moving fast, more from frustration than anything else. I could feel him watching me.

And it wasn’t casual. It was like he was trying to read me. Like I was a mystery he’d forgotten he never had permission to solve. His gaze lingered just a moment too long. “Keep it.” His voice was almost quiet, when I stretched out the change toward him.

I froze for a beat. Then shook my head, pushing the coins and bills right into his hand. “I don’t want your damn tip. I just want this whole nightmare to end.”

He didn’t say a word. Just slipped the money back into his pocket. His jaw clenched, and I could hear the sound of him grinding down on whatever words he wasn’t saying. “About the chaos in the ca—”

But I stepped forward before he could finish, the anger rushing back in with a heat that stung behind my eyes. My finger pointed right at his chest, barely hovering from touching his jacket.

“I don’t want to hear it. Just be grateful we didn’t throw your girlfriend out onto the street after the way she insulted our work. That woman had the nerve to act like she’s better than all of us. Next time.. don’t show up here again.”

Ronan's gaze dropped to my finger. He didn’t flinch or move back, just stared for a heartbeat before lifting his eyes to meet mine again. And for a split second, something cracked in his expression—frustration. Maybe even a flash of anger. It wasn’t scary.

“She is not my girlfriend! If anything, her taste is as unbearable as her attitude. I didn’t ask for her to insult anyone here, and I certainly didn’t enjoy being dragged into her tantrum.” His voice was tight now, the polished calm starting to bend under the weight of whatever he was holding back. His brows were drawn in. “Don’t talk like you know everything about me.” He added.

I let my eyes roll with theatrical flair and blew out a sharp breath. “I don’t care.”

And I didn’t say it to wound. I said it because, right now, caring was the last thing I had the energy for. My hands were cold. And this day had already drained the kindness from my bones.

Without another word, I moved past him, my shoulder brushing lightly against his arm. He just stood there like a statue made of shadow and unfinished thoughts.

I didn’t turn back. My shoes tapped sharply against the pavement, echoing in the chilly silence. Each step I took felt like I was walking out of a dream that had soured into something bitter.

“Weird woman.” His voice drifted behind me, soft enough that maybe I wasn’t supposed to hear it. But I did.

But instead of saying anything, I pulled open my car door, my fingers slightly trembling as I grabbed the handle, the cold metal biting into my skin.

I slid into the seat and exhaled as the familiar warmth of my car wrapped around me. My eyes flicked toward him one last time, my glare sharp but quiet, before I shut the door with a final click.

The engine hummed to life, purring beneath my touch as I rested my hands on the wheel. The headlights swept forward, catching bits of gravel and concrete in their light. But before I could drive away, something made me glance at the rearview mirror.

He was still standing there. His hands were shoved deep into his coat pockets, and I could see his chest rise slowly like he was trying to breathe through something that didn’t want to let go.

And then his eyes—still so annoyingly focused—stared straight at me. Or maybe through me.

Clearly glaring at me.
Stupid.