The last time Chiara disappeared for three days, I ended up with a knife to my throat.
And now she’s texting me again—asking for help. She hasn’t been home in three full days, yet she expects me to drop everything and fix her problems.
My identical twin needs me to cover her shift at the café. Again. I should say no. I really should.
But the words Please, Aria, I’m desperate flash across my screen, and I already know I’ll end up saying yes.
I text back: Fine. But I’m keeping the tips.
Three dots appear, disappear, then appear again.
She replies: Whatever. Thank you!!!
Typical Chiara—vanish for days, reappear with a crisis.
We share a face. Not a life.
I work two jobs just to stay afloat.
Chiara collects debts like postcards—and somehow, they always land in my lap.
I toss the phone onto the bed and rub my temples. My head’s already pounding, and the day hasn’t even started.
I might’ve left her to deal with this one on her own, but too often, the men she borrows from are dangerous beyond belief.
I still remember what happened three months ago, when I was being followed home from the drugstore where I work nights. For four whole days, they tracked me.
I was terrified. One night, they cornered me and pressed a knife to my throat, demanding I pay up.
The thing is, I didn’t owe them a cent. They thought I was Chiara. I was so scared, I handed over the paycheck I’d just received.
Luckily, she didn’t owe them much.
Unluckily, she never paid me back.
I drag myself out of bed and head to the shower, even though I’m running on fumes.
I worked at the drugstore until five this morning and barely got any sleep.
Now I’ve got less than half an hour to get to Brew Haven Café before her shift starts at ten.
I quickly change into black pants and a white button-up shirt—Chiara’s uniform. It hangs loosely in places where she fills it out more than I do. We may be identical twins, but years of different diets and lifestyles have left us with subtle differences only we can truly see.
As I brush my blonde waves, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes stare back at me. I’m twenty-eight going on forty. Constant worry about bills, rent, and keeping us fed has aged me.
I pull my hair into a ponytail, grab my purse, and head out.
The apartment Chiara and I share sits above a laundromat, which fills our space with the constant hum of dryers. Shady characters hang around more often than not. It’s not unusual to see police vans out front, hear gunshots in the middle of the night, or witness gang fights spill into the street.
But the rent is cheap—more necessity than choice. I lock the door behind me, even though there’s nothing inside worth stealing, and locks really won’t make a difference if anyone wants to break in.
I walk the six blocks to Brew Haven, mentally calculating how much of today’s pay will go toward the electricity bill and how much toward rent. Not enough, either way.
I arrive just in time. The café hums with afternoon life—college students behind laptops, a few businesspeople deep in breakfast meetings, and the usual neighborhood regulars. I slip in through the back entrance, shove my purse into the staff locker that should be Chiara’s, and grab an apron.
“Chiara! You’re on time for once.”
I turn to see the shift manager—Mike or Mark or something—eyeing me with surprise. I smile and nod, not trusting myself to speak. Chiara would flirt. I just fake polite.
All I need to do is get through this shift without anyone realizing I’m not her. She’s already been fired too many times for violating her contract.
“Your section’s filling up. Get out there,” he says, already focused on the espresso machine.
I tie the apron around my waist and step onto the café floor. The noise hits me first—overlapping conversations, the hiss of steam, dishes clattering in the background. I scan the room, trying to figure out which tables belong to Chiara’s section.
“Chiara!”
The annoyed voice slices through the air. “Chiara!”
It takes me a second to realize I’m supposed to respond to that name. I turn toward the sound and see the manager standing by the counter, gesturing impatiently to the far corner of the café.
“Your section. Table six needs to order, and eight wants their check,” he says, loud enough that a few customers glance over. Heat creeps up my neck.
“On it,” I mumble, grabbing an order pad and pen.
I weave through the tables, acutely aware of eyes following me. This is why I hate covering for Chiara—I hate being noticed. I much prefer my night shift at the drugstore or afternoons at the bookstore, where I can disappear between shelves and no one cares if I go silent for hours.
Coffee. Vanilla. Clinking dishes. Voices.
I should be focused. But I’m not.
Chiara’s messes keep piling up, and I can’t keep bailing her out.
My tray wobbles in my hand.
Focus, Aria. Just get through the shift.
I draw a breath, steady the tray, and step into the flow of the café, weaving between tables like muscle memory is doing the work my mind can’t.
The weight of it presses on my chest as I balance the tray in one hand.
Table six is a group of college girls sharing a giant slice of chocolate cake. I take their drink orders without incident.
Table eight is an elderly couple who smile warmly and hold hands across the table, quietly chatting like it’s their first date.
And him.
He had been there for a while, sitting in the back corner—a man who clearly doesn’t belong in a place like Brew Haven. Everything about him screams money and power, from his tailored charcoal suit to his perfectly styled dark hair. He’s handsome. Devastatingly so. The kind of face you expect to see in a magazine, not tucked into the corner of a small café. My heart starts to race the longer I look at him.
His hands rest on either side of a plain black coffee, long fingers utterly still.
But it’s the glimpse of ink that freezes me. Just below the cuff of his shirt, curling over the bone of his wrist, is a tattoo—dark, intricate, deliberate.
Not a modern design. Something older. Traditional.
The kind of tattoo you earn, not choose.
And it’s that stillness that draws me in. He doesn’t fidget with his phone or glance around the room like most customers. He just watches—with the sharp, deliberate focus of someone who already knows more about everyone here than they know about themselves.
I wasn’t sure why I noticed him. Maybe because he was too controlled. His presence commanded attention, yet no one seemed to notice him.
No one but me.
And then he looked up.
I almost drop the tray.
A shiver runs down my spine. I can’t explain it, but there’s something about him that puts me on edge—something that makes me want, inexplicably, not to disappoint him.
I run my fingers through my hair, neatening it instinctively.
“Waitress! Another coffee over here!”
I snap back to reality and return to the rhythm of the floor. For the next twenty minutes, I fall into a groove—taking orders, delivering food, clearing plates. But I remain aware of the man in the corner.
His coffee must be cold by now, but he hasn’t asked for a refill. He just sits and watches.
And sometimes, when I glance over, I find him watching me.
Our eyes meet again across the café. For a moment, the noise around me fades, like someone’s turned down the volume. His eyes seem dark—at first. But as I look closer, I realize they’re green. Deep, vivid, emerald green.
He holds my gaze with such intensity that it steals the breath from my lungs. I should look away. I want to. But I can’t.
I had no reason to, but I smiled. Just a small, fleeting curve of my lips. A polite habit.
His jaw flexed. His fingers tightened around the cup.
But he didn’t smile back. His expression stays cool, unreadable. Unimpressed.
And suddenly I feel naked in the middle of the café—foolish for trying to smile at him.
A crash from the kitchen breaks the spell. I look away, heart pounding. I know it has nothing to do with whatever just shattered.
When I risk another glance, the stranger is calmly sipping his coffee—like nothing ever happened.
I tell myself to focus. The café is getting busier now, and tables are turning faster with lunch just around the corner. The tips are decent—better than I expected. It’s the weekend, after all. People are generally happier, more generous.
By one o’clock, I’ve already made enough to cover at least a quarter of Chiara’s share of the rent.
That’s when the drunk man stumbles in.
He looks to be in his forties, wearing a rumpled business suit and reeking of whiskey. He drops heavily into one of my tables, nearly missing the seat entirely. I approach cautiously.
“Welcome to Brew Haven. What can I get for you?” I keep my voice professional, despite the way his bloodshot eyes travel up and down my body.
“Well, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” he slurs, ignoring the menu. “Turn around for me, sweetheart.”
“I’ll give you a moment to look things over,” I say, already stepping back.
But his hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, fingers clamping down hard enough to hurt. I freeze.
“Don’t be like that,” he says, lowering his voice like he thinks it’s charming. “I’m a big tipper for girls who are nice to me.”
His thumb rubs slow, greasy circles against my skin. “How about we talk about how you like to earn those tips? I’ve got plenty of cash for a pretty little thing like you.”
The implication in his words makes my stomach churn. I try to pull away, but his grip tightens. Then, with his free hand, he pulls out a wad of cash—hundred-dollar bills, thick enough to make my breath catch.
“Look,” he says, watching my reaction. “All of this can be yours if you’d just come out back with me. Just to talk, darlin’.”
Blood pounds in my ears, drowning out the clatter and chatter of the café. All I can focus on is the heat of his hand, his leering smile, and the crushing feeling of being trapped.
There’s something rotten about this man. I feel it in my bones.
“Even if you had a million dollars,” I snap, “I wouldn’t go anywhere with you.” My voice trembles. “So are you going to let go, or do I have to scream?”
His sneer deepens, and his grip tightens. Then his other hand—still holding the cash—slides up my thigh, reaching for my ass.
I jerk back and try to kick him in the shin, but miss.
“Hey, listen up, you bitch. Don’t be a—”
A sharp scrape of a chair against the floor cut through the air like a gunshot.
The man in the charcoal suit—the one who had been watching me earlier—is now standing behind my assailant. His jaw is tight, eyes narrowed as they flick between me and the drunk.
Up close, he’s even more imposing. Tall, broad-shouldered—the kind of build that comes from hours at the gym.
“You have three seconds to decide if that hand’s worth keeping.”
The words are spoken so softly I almost miss them. But something in his voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
The drunk hears it, too. His grip slackens, uncertainty cutting through his false bravado. I yank my hand free and step back, rubbing at the red marks he left behind.
Then the drunk turns and sees who’s standing behind him. He pales.
He tries to stand—fumbling, swaying.
And when the stranger steps forward, the drunk doesn’t just back down.
He flinches like a man who’s seen this type before.
The kind that doesn’t fight fair.
The kind that doesn’t lose.
“Leave.”
Just one word, but it lands with such quiet authority that my body obeys before my mind catches up. I step back, my pulse racing.
The tension crackles like a storm about to break—volatile, electric, and impossible to ignore. For a moment, I think the drunk might argue or even try to fight, but he tries to walk away.
When he does, the stranger grabs his wrist and twists it upward. I swear I hear the crack as I walk backward, watching the scene unfold. The drunk trembles and drops back into his seat. Just then, the stranger leans down and whispers something I can’t hear.
Whatever he says drains the last bit of color from the drunk’s face. He scrambles up again, nearly knocking over the chair and tripping over himself as he bolts out of the café.
I remain frozen, my wrist still throbbing where the drunk grabbed me. The stranger watches him go, his expression blank.
Before I can say anything, the manager appears beside me.
“Everything okay here, Chiara?” he asks, looking between me and the stranger with concern.
“Yes, it’s fine,” I say quickly, remembering to respond to my sister’s name.
“Take five if you need it,” he says, surprisingly soft for a guy who usually barks orders.
I nod and retreat into the kitchen, my legs shaky beneath me. Through the round window in the door, I watch the stranger return to his table.
He doesn’t sit. Instead, he slips on a black overcoat that somehow makes him look even more mysterious.
I exhale, my pulse still racing.
And then—I see him reach into his pocket, pull out a crisp bill, and set it on the drunken man’s table. The other guy forgot to leave a tip.
Not charity. A statement.
Like he’s stamping the moment as his—owning it the way you mark territory. Or send a message.
As he turns to leave, his gaze sweeps the café one last time—then lands on me. He knows I’m watching. The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly—not quite a smile, but a signal. A recognition.
Then he’s gone, the bell over the door tinkling softly as it closes behind him.
I push through the kitchen door and head to the table where the drunk had been sitting. The bill the stranger left is folded neatly on the table. I pick it up—and nearly drop it when I see the denomination—$100.
I should feel relieved that it didn’t spiral out of control. Grateful, even—for the perfectly timed interruption that pulled the plug before it all went sideways. But instead, I’m left with a bitter mix of emotions: unease, curiosity, and something else—something I can’t quite name.
I hate needing anyone. Especially a man like him.
But the truth is, the moment he stood up, my chest loosened, like I’d been holding my breath for hours.
And that feeling—relief? safety?—makes me feel weak. Exposed.
Who was he?
Why did he help me?
What did he say to scare off that asshole?
The rest of my shift passes in a blur. By closing time, my feet throb and my brain feels foggy, but I can’t stop replaying the moment in my head.
As I walk home through the quiet streets, I can’t shake the feeling that something significant happened today. That the encounter with the stranger wasn’t just coincidence, but something deliberate.
And despite everything—the stress of covering for Chiara, the drunk, the never-ending pressure of bills—I catch myself hoping I’ll see him again.
It’s a dangerous thought.
Men like him—powerful, wealthy, intense—don’t mix with women like me.
Not without a reason.
And not without it costing us something.
Still, as I climb the stairs to our apartment, his dark eyes and that almost-smile stay with me.
I tell myself I’m being silly. That the connection I felt was one-sided and meaningless.
But deep down, I know better.
Men like him don’t just disappear.
They come back. And when they do… they change everything.
I don’t know what he is. But something tells me I’ll find out—whether I want to or not.
