The espresso cup hit the white tablecloth with a delicate clink.
For one perfect moment, silence ruled the room. A stillness held in crystal and linen and curated ambiance.
Then Lelouch Wayne slumped to the side like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
The man in the seat beside him—older, gray-haired, instantly panicked—lunged to catch his arm.
Chairs scraped. Someone shouted. A camera flash burst across the far wall.
Winter Parker, still hidden in the wings of the event hall with a paper plate in her trembling hands, stood frozen. She didn't move. Didn't blink. Her ears rang.
She saw the espresso cup roll once in its saucer before falling flat.
"Mr. Wayne?" A woman's voice, tight and shaking.
People were rising from their seats now. Security. Staff. Photographers with wide, greedy eyes. A medic pushed through the crowd, barking orders. Somewhere in the chaos, a news reporter was already giving a play-by-play, breathless and far too eager.
And Winter—Winter couldn't move.
Because the man who had just collapsed in front of a hundred witnesses had, moments before, taken a bite of her banana bread. And then a sip of that espresso.
And now he wasn't moving.
She was still holding the second loaf. Like a smoking gun.
---
A hand closed around her upper arm.
She jumped so hard she almost dropped the bread.
"Miss," said the assistant—the one who had pulled her backstage. His face was pale, slick with sweat. "You need to come with me."
"What?" Her voice came out in a rasp. "Why?"
"Protocol," he snapped. "Security. Come now."
Winter's legs moved on their own. She didn't remember setting the bread down. She didn't remember following the assistant down a hallway, through a staff door, up a narrow stairwell.
Someone handed her a bottle of water.
A woman in a navy blazer appeared with a clipboard and a badge that read Crisis Control.
Winter started to breathe fast. Too fast. She backed against the wall, trying not to hyperventilate.
"He just—he just collapsed," she whispered.
"We're aware," the woman said. "Your name is?"
"Winter. Winter Parker."
The woman made a note.
"And you… prepared the food?"
"No! I mean—yes? Just the banana bread."
"The same banana bread he ate?"
"I guess? I don't know. Someone brought it over. I didn't—he wasn't supposed to—"
"Miss Parker," the woman said gently but firmly, "I need you to stay calm and come with us. Just some questions. Nothing official yet."
Nothing official yet. The words hit her like a slap.
---
The room they brought her to was small. Windowless. Cold.
She sat on a chair that wobbled slightly.
There were three people—two men in black suits and one woman with cropped silver hair and eyes that had seen far worse things than confused shelter girls with shaky voices.
"Miss Parker," said the silver-haired woman. "Do you have any allergies?"
"What? No."
"Any history of substance use?"
Winter blinked. "No."
"Did you touch or tamper with the espresso given to Mr. Wayne?"
Her mouth went dry. "No. I didn't even know it was his."
"But you were seen accepting a cup from a barista. At approximately 2:17 PM."
"It was offered to me!" she snapped. "He said it was extra. He handed it to me."
"Did you drink it?"
"I took a sip."
"Then what?"
"I gave it back. I didn't like it."
"Who did you give it to?"
Winter tried to remember. Her brain felt stuffed with fog and static.
"I—I think I just left it on the tray again. I didn't hand it to anyone."
The woman's expression didn't change. "But you were seen near the tray. The espresso tray."
"Yes, but I didn't—"
"Miss Parker," the second man said, flipping open a slim black laptop, "we have footage showing you interacting with the staff. You appear to hand off a cup. Can you explain that?"
"I don't remember handing anyone anything!"
The woman sighed. "The problem, Miss Parker, is that no one else touched that tray after you. Except the assistant. And Mr. Wayne."
Winter felt the room tilt sideways. Her hands gripped the edge of the chair.
"But I didn't—I don't even know what was in it! I wouldn't—I'm not a criminal!"
"We're not accusing you. Not yet."
That word again. Yet.
---
Three hours later, she was released.
No charges. Not officially. But the looks she got on her way out said everything.
The news vans were already outside.
A woman shoved a microphone toward her face. "Miss Parker, are you the one who poisoned Lelouch Wayne?"
"I didn't poison anyone," she said. Or tried to. It came out strangled.
Another voice shouted, "Is this terrorism? Was it political?"
"Did you plan to murder him?"
"Do you know him personally?"
She couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe.
Someone grabbed her by the elbow—bless them—and pulled her through the crowd to a side street. She ran. Didn't stop until her lungs gave out.
She made it back to the shelter just before nightfall. She collapsed onto the shared bunk in her room and buried her face in the pillow.
That was when the texts started.
She hadn't even realized she'd gone viral.
---
On the news, she was "The Banana Bread Assassin."
On Twitter, it was #ParkerGate and #EspressoGirl.
A clip of her standing behind the table, wide-eyed, was already circulating with dramatic horror music.
Someone slowed it down. Gave her red devil eyes. Added flames.
"Please," she whispered into her pillow. "Please let this be a dream."
But the internet didn't dream. It devoured.
And Winter Parker had just become its midnight snack.
---
Two days later, she received a letter.
Not a call. Not a text. A letter. Cream cardstock, black ink, hand-delivered.
> Miss Parker,
I request your presence at Wayne Tower, Monday morning. 10:00 AM.
You are not under arrest. This is not a legal summons.
But I suggest you attend.
— Lelouch Wayne
Winter read it five times.
She stared at the signature, bold and slanted.
The man had collapsed in front of her. Nearly died. He had more money than entire countries. He could have ended her with a phone call.
And now he wanted a meeting?
This was insane.
But then again—so was everything else.
She folded the letter and whispered, "What the hell do you want from me, Espresso Man?"