Sunlight pierced through the cracked, dust-streaked window, casting a sharp ray across Sofia Fiore's face. She groaned, rolling over on the lumpy mattress—then jolted upright with a startled yelp as her hand slapped down into something cold and wet.
"Oh my God!"
The mattress sagged beneath her as she scrambled to her feet. Her bare skin met the puddle-soaked floor. Rain. Again. The storm from last night had found its way in through the leaky ceiling, and now her tiny studio apartment smelled like mildew and regret.
Sofia glanced up. A steady drip from the roof hit the corner of the mattress with rhythmic mockery. Her soaked fur flip-flops sat beside the puddle like two drowned rats.
"Shit."
She snatched them up, wringing one out with a grimace before tossing them toward the wall in defeat. Teeth chattering slightly from the early morning chill, she made her way to the bathroom.
Turning the knob, the faucet shrieked to life—only to blast her with water that felt like it had been piped in from the Arctic.
"Fu—uuck!" she cried, jumping back. But she didn't have time to complain. She was already late.
The freezing shower was over in two minutes. She towel-dried at lightning speed, yanked on the cleanest pair of jeans she could find, and pulled a slightly wrinkled black T-shirt over her head. Her wild red hair, still damp, was wrangled into a messy bun. No time for makeup, not even mascara.
She slung her frayed bag over her shoulder and rushed to the kitchen for a quick breakfast—anything to stop her growling stomach. She poured cereal into a chipped ceramic bowl, grabbed the carton of milk, and tipped it in.
First bite. Sour.
"Seriously?"
She gagged and spat it back into the sink. With a sigh, she threw open the refrigerator door. A foul wave of spoiled food greeted her. The light inside was out. The power was cut. Again.
She closed the fridge with a quiet, tired thud and leaned her forehead against it.
"Why me?"
No time to wallow. She grabbed her keys and bolted out the door.
The moment Sofia stepped out of the building, she spotted her landlord—Mrs. Laura, in her usual morning housecoat, sweeping the steps with a scowl.
"Mrs. Laura, the roof's leaking again and the electricity's gone—again," Sofia said, trying not to sound too desperate.
The woman looked at her over horn-rimmed glasses. "And your rent expired two weeks ago."
Sofia exhaled sharply. "I told you I'd pay by the end of the month."
"No maintenance until the balance is cleared." Mrs. Laura walked past her without another word.
Sofia stared after her, teeth clenched. "Ugh! This day just keeps getting better."
By the time she reached the diner—sweaty, flustered, and 30 minutes late—the morning rush had already begun. The scent of burnt toast and grease hit her as she slipped through the back entrance, hoping to avoid her boss.
Instead, she walked straight into Sandra, her best friend and fellow waitress, who was pulling a batch of fries from the fryer.
"Where the hell have you been?" Sandra asked without looking up.
"Hell," Sofia muttered. "Did you cover for me?"
Sandra gave her a dry look. "He got here before I did." She tossed an apron at her.
"Of course he did." Sofia caught it and started tying it on.
"Get your ass out front before he comes looking. I'm not getting dragged into your tornado today."
"Wow. Love you too," Sofia said, sarcastic. Sandra blew her a greasy kiss.
She shoved her bag into the cubby and headed out to the floor. Tables one, three, and seven were all occupied and waiting. She took a deep breath, plastered on her best tired smile, and walked over to table one.
A woman sat with a book in one hand and the menu in the other.
"Good morning," Sofia greeted. "Ready to order?"
The woman smiled back. "A hot chocolate and two croissants, please."
"Coming right up."
She moved to table three. Two teenage boys in school uniforms, cocky grins already in place.
"Hey, boys. what would you like to have?",
The one closest to her smirked. "Well, if we're being flirty, I'd like your number."
His friend made a sound of approval.
Sofia leaned forward, voice sweet as honey. "Aw, that's cute. But I don't give my number to underage boys." She let her eyes drift down. "Especially ones with tiny dicks."
The smirk vanished. The second boy looked away, stifling laughter. She stood tall. "Now you order",
"Coffee. With cream," he said quickly.
"And you?" she asked the first one, deadpan.
"Same," he muttered.
"Thanks for the cooperation," Sofia said with a wink and spun toward table seven.
The man had zoned out, it was like he was calculating. He sat perfectly still. His dark hair was slicked back with precision, and his profile was sharper than reality had any right to be.
His gaze was fixed on something far beyond the window. She hesitated.
Okay. Focus.
"Good day, sir. May I take your order?"
Nothing.
"Hello?"
Still no response.
She stepped closer. "Sir, I need—"
"I heard you the first time," he said without turning.
His voice was deep, velvety, and cold. Like a knife wrapped in silk. Then he turned, his eyes briefly meeting hers before drifting to her hair.
Sofia stiffened. Her bright red hair often got attention—but the way he looked at it made her skin prickle.
He was listening the whole time? And here I was thinking he was deaf.
"Okay, then… your order?" she said, trying not to sound shaken.
"Just coffee," he murmured, then looked away again.
Weird. She blinked and returned to the counter.
Hot chocolate and croissants for table one. Two coffees with cream for table three. And for table seven—coffee... with cream?. No one drinks it black, right? she reasoned.
She placed the mug gently on the table.
"Here you go," she said.
The man lifted the cup, took a sip—then suddenly froze. A second later, he spat the coffee out, the liquid spraying across the floor in an arc.
Sofia's heart jumped. Her eyes went wide—not from fear, but annoyance.
Seriously?
She stared at the mess pooling on the tile. Great. Who's cleaning that? Probably her.
She looked back at him. His face was hard to read. Controlled fury? Disgust? Both?
But still, she forced the customer-service smile.
"Is something wrong, sir?" she asked, her voice calm. But in her head, the real question was already echoing:
the fuck?
"What is this?" the man said, his voice laced with pure disdain as he set the cup down sharply. He dabbed his lips with a white napkin—his every movement deliberate, precise, almost regal. Even the way he wiped his mouth was attractive, Sofia noticed, though the contempt in his eyes overshadowed everything.
"Sir, it's coffee—with cream," Sofia replied, confusion tightening in her chest. Her eyes darted from the steaming cup to his unreadable face. Why was he making a scene over something so trivial?
His cold gaze flicked to hers, sharp as broken glass.
"I requested coffee. Plain. Black. Coffee."
His voice dropped with the weight of finality, as if each word was a command—not a request.
Sofia blinked, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment. Around her, the background hum of the diner seemed to fade, leaving only the low pulse of humiliation and his commanding presence.
"Actually, you weren't specific, and I thought—" Sofia started, trying to salvage the situation.
But he cut her off, his voice sharp as a blade.
"You thought you could make decisions for me? Maybe try thinking about your job —then you might be less incompetent." he shot.
The words hit like a slap.
Who the hell does this guy think he is? Sofia's patience, already paper-thin from the morning, snapped.
She stepped forward, chin lifted. "Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. 'Too-Perfect-for-the-World.' Why don't you take the menu—and the apron—let's see how it works out for you behind this counter?" Her tone dripped with sarcasm, the heat in her voice undeniable.
A ripple passed through the air.
"Who do you think you're talking to? Step back, lady." A second man, tall, broad, and cold-eyed, suddenly emerged from the booth's shadow like a phantom. His presence screamed bodyguard.
Sofia's stomach flipped. How had she not noticed him?
But before she could speak, the man in black raised a hand. "Luca, let her be."
Then he stood.
Sofia's breath caught.
He towered over her—his frame lean but dangerously cut, like a blade honed to perfection. His black button-up shirt clung to his torso, partly undone to reveal a glimpse of a muscular chest dusted with ink. A gold ring glinted on his finger, and the unmistakable shimmer of a real Rolex peeked from beneath his cuff. Power radiated off him—not just the wealth kind, but the kind that warned you he was used to control. The kind that demanded fear.
He looked down at her, his storm-gray eyes cool but unreadable.
"Sofia," he read her name off her tag but there was a way he pronounced it, it was different.
"That's right," she answered, standing her ground, mentally forcing her knees not to shake.
"Apologize," he said, voice calm and dangerous. "I only ask once."
Come again. Was this a threat or a test?
Sofia narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me? You want me to apologize? After insulting me, belittling me in front of a full diner? No. If anyone owes an apology here, it's you." Her voice trembled, not with fear—but fury.
Silence gripped the diner.
Then—
"What's going on here?" a stern voice broke in. Her boss, Mr. Garvey, marched over, looking between the spilled coffee and the tension radiating off both of them.
He offered a polite, panicked bow to the customer.
"I'm terribly sorry, sir. This won't happen again. We'll ensure you're treated with respect." why was her boss being so well mannered, who was this man for real?
The man's eyes didn't leave Sofia.
"It's fine," he said flatly. Then, more ominously: "She'll regret it one way or another."
And with that, he turned and walked out, Luca following silently behind him.
Sofia stood frozen, adrenaline still buzzing in her veins.
"Sofia," her boss snapped. "Clean this mess up. Then meet me in the back. Now."
She muttered a curse under her breath. "Shit."