Six

The sound of my phone’s chime wakes me from a restless nap. It’s a notification from the ad I clicked earlier. My breath catches as I unlock the screen and read the message:

“Interview will be done tomorrow at Escalante Café at 10:00 am sharp. Call this number when you arrive: 00######.”

I stare at the words, my chest tightening as I read them over and over again. Was this a good idea? What if it was some human trafficking scheme?

A quick G****e search for the Café shows it’s a real place—a luxurious one at that. My racing heart slows a little, and I exhale shakily. “It’s fine. I can do this. It’s just an interview,” I whisper, trying to convince myself.

But somehow, this one feels different. The unease lingers, a gnawing doubt at the back of my mind.

That night, I lie awake, clutching my chest as worst-case scenarios play out in my head. The possibility of Don Mario’s men showing up at my door twists my stomach into knots. I try to push the thought aside, forcing myself to sleep, but it’s a long time before I manage.

The next morning, I wake up feeling no better—maybe worse. For a moment, I check my phone, half-expecting the message to have been a dream, but it’s real. The words glare back at me, sharp and final.

As Elise heads off to her classes, I stand in the kitchen, steeling myself. "It’s just an interview," I repeat, the words hollow but necessary. After slipping into my best dress—the only one that feels remotely appropriate—I set off, determined to make a good impression.

The hour-long walk stretches out in my mind. Every step feels heavier as I near the upscale neighborhood. Finally, I see the Café, an exquisite building nestled among the polished streets of Los Angeles.

I stop in front of it, my mouth dry. The sleek, modern design seems to taunt me, whispering that I don’t belong here. With a deep gulp of air, I push open the heavy doors and step inside.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee hits me as I step inside, mingling with a faint floral scent that feels too fancy for a Café. Soft classical music plays in the background, its refined notes bouncing off the polished marble floors. The elegance of the place tightens the knot already coiling in my stomach—I don’t belong here.

I glance at the time on my phone. Ten minutes early. My fingers hover nervously over the number from the message. Maybe I should wait a little longer before calling.

Before I can decide, something warm and wet splashes against my side, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” a sharp voice bites out.

I look up in shock, only to see a man in a tailored suit glaring at me, a nearly empty to-go cup in his hand. My gaze shifts down to the front of my dress, where dark coffee stains are spreading fast across the fabric.

“I—what?” I stammer, blinking at him in disbelief.

“You ran right into me,” he continues, his tone clipped and impatient. “Do you know how much this suit costs?”

My jaw drops. I ran into him? I hadn’t even moved from where I was standing. Anger starts bubbling up in my chest, hot and sharp.

“Excuse me?” I snap, glaring at him. “I didn’t move an inch. You’re the one who wasn’t paying attention!”

His lips press into a thin line, and his green eyes narrow as he looks me up and down, like he’s deciding I’m not worth the argument. “Whatever. Just try not to stand in the way next time.”

For a moment, I’m too stunned to respond. The audacity! My hands curl into fists at my sides as he brushes past me, leaving me standing there, coffee-stained and fuming.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath, glancing around to see if anyone else witnessed the exchange. A couple of people nearby look away quickly, pretending not to notice.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment as I turn toward the restroom. I can feel the heat rising in my chest as I walk, muttering angrily to myself. “Watch where I’m going? Who does he think he is?”

Inside the restroom, I stare at my reflection, the dark coffee stain a glaring reminder of the encounter. My hands tremble as I grab some paper towels and try to blot at the mess, but it’s no use.

I take a deep breath, staring at my stained dress in the mirror. The coffee blotches mock me, a perfect metaphor for the chaos of my morning. “It’s fine,” I whisper, though my voice trembles. “This is just a bump in the road. You’ve got this.”

Still, the image of that arrogant man flashes in my mind, his cold tone, his complete lack of remorse. My hands curl into fists. What kind of person acts like that? I shake my head. Focus. Don’t let him live rent-free in your head.

Pulling out my phone, I dial the number from the message. Each ring feels like an eternity, stretching my nerves tighter and tighter until—

“Hello?” The voice is calm, smooth, and detached, like he’s used to people hanging on his every word.

“Hi, this is...” I pause, clearing my throat. “I mean, I’m here for the interview.”

“Good. Go to the VIP lounge on the second floor. One of the staff will guide you.” The line goes dead before I can even say thank you.

I blink at my phone. Rude. Is everyone here allergic to basic manners?

Shoving my phone into my bag, I make my way out of the restroom and flag down a waiter. He’s polite enough, leading me to an elevator hidden at the back.

But even as the doors close behind me, my mind is spinning. Between the coffee incident and the clipped tone of that phone call, my confidence feels like it’s unraveling thread by thread.

When the elevator dings open, I step out into a space that feels straight out of a dream—or a nightmare. The VIP lounge is even more extravagant than the café downstairs, all polished wood, gleaming chandeliers, and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city skyline. My stomach twists. What am I even doing here?

Then I see them. Two men seated at a round table across the room.

One of them is facing me, his posture calm, almost regal, as he watches my approach. His suit is impossibly sharp, his expression unreadable. But it’s the man sitting across from him—his back to me—who draws my attention. Something about the set of his shoulders, the way he leans back in his chair, exudes a familiar arrogance that sends a shiver down my spine.

The man facing me stands as I approach, offering a polite nod. “Miss, over here.”

I force my legs to move, though they feel like lead. My heart pounds as I reach the table, my nerves jangling like live wires. “Good morning,” I manage, my voice wavering.

“Please, have a seat,” the first man says, gesturing to the empty chair.

I slide into the chair hesitantly, my gaze drifting to the second man. He shifts in his seat, turning toward me—and the breath whooshes out of my lungs.

It’s him.