The television's cool blue glow spilled across the cramped living room, casting dancing shadows on the faded cream walls. A mismatched collection of coffee mugs cluttered the scratched wooden table like trophies from small battles fought and won.
"…and the award for Most Influential Global Conglomerate goes to—Stanecoup International!"
The studio burst into applause, the crisp sound echoing from the apartment's old speakers, making it feel like the celebration was happening right there, among them.
On the screen, the male anchor leaned forward, his tailored navy suit hugging his frame like it was custom-made. Hazel eyes shone with a sharp gleam as his voice cut through the room.
"Well, they earned it. Stanecoup International isn't for the faint-hearted. But the real headline? Their latest venture—Blackstone Global Security. These days, every major player in the country's elite hires their security from them. Only the best get through. Trust me—they deserve that award."
He raised his eyebrows in theatrical exaggeration, and the co-host—a brunette with perfect curls and lips painted a flawless rose-pink—laughed, flashing a grin so dazzling it could blind.
"You're right," she said, tilting her head with sly amusement. "But where was Xavier Stone, the CEO? For the past three years, it's always been his secretary at these events."
Ryan smirked, voice laced with casual intrigue. "Yeah, but hey—who are we to decide who shows up?"
The music swelled, signaling the start of a commercial break, and Avery clicked her tongue, glancing sideways at Riley.
"Your boss is loaded," Avery said, voice low but teasing.
Riley lounged on the threadbare couch, legs crossed, Jace balanced on her lap. She wore ripped black jeans that hugged her long legs and a slouchy gray sweatshirt that fell off one shoulder, revealing the thin strap of her worn tank top beneath. Her deep mahogany hair was swept into a messy bun, a pencil poking out like a makeshift crown.
A smirk tugged at Riley's honey-brown eyes. "He's not just rich, babe—he's ice cold. Doesn't like people. Hates crowds. And from what I've seen… he really hates women."
Avery leaned in, curls brushing her cheeks. "Why? I thought every disappointment was a blessing. Or is he the exception?"
Riley's grin deepened. "Want me to give you his address so you can go interrogate him yourself?"
Avery narrowed her eyes with mock menace. "If Jace wasn't sitting on your lap right now, I'd smack that grin off your face."
Laughter bubbled up from Riley as she carefully lifted Jace to the floor. The toddler stood in his favorite blue overalls, a tiny red firetruck stitched on the front pocket. Soft black curls framed his round face, and those big brown eyes—warm, innocent, impossible to resist—locked onto Avery's with a silent plea.
The apartment buzzed suddenly, Avery's phone buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out—Anny: Diner's slammed today. You in?
Avery typed back fast: On my way. Hold my spot!
"Enough talking—I'm late for work," Riley said, grabbing her black leather jacket from the armrest. She ran her hand over her sweatshirt, smoothing the fabric, then straightened her jeans and snatched her purse from the cluttered coffee table.
"I'll pick up Jace's meds on my way home," she added, voice clipped but gentle.
"That'd be a lifesaver," Avery said, pressing kisses to Jace's cheeks. "Be good for Mrs. Williams, okay?"
"Yes, Mommy," Jace chirped, flashing a cheeky grin.
Riley pressed a quick kiss to Avery's cheek, the warm vanilla scent of her perfume lingering as she swept out the door.
The apartment fell silent again, save for the low hum of the fridge and distant murmur of the television. It had always been just the three of them—Avery, Riley, and Jace. No family, no husband. Best friends since the days they were raised in Silverpine Home for Children, the orphanage that shaped their survival.
After aging out, they worked the streets, scraping together every dime until they could rent this two-bedroom shoebox. The walls were chipped, the pipes groaned like ghosts at night, and the winter draft cut deep—but it was theirs.
And Jace? That was a story Avery rarely spoke of—a wound she wished she could erase. Except he was her little miracle.
⸻
The morning air bit with sharp chill as Avery tugged her denim jacket tighter around her slender frame, boots clicking on the cracked sidewalk as she made her way toward the diner. The street buzzed to life around her—a mother pulling her child's hand, a suited man barking into his phone, and the rich aroma of coffee drifting from the corner café.
Her phone buzzed again. Anny: You better hurry! We're packed and the line's out the door.
Avery grinned, typing back: Got it. Channeling my inner waitress ninja.
Pushing through the diner's swinging back door, Avery's sneakers squeaked against the worn tile. The kitchen was a flurry of motion—bacon sizzling, knives chopping, pots banging like a chaotic orchestra.
"Morning, everyone!" she called, tying her faded red apron tight over a simple black t-shirt and jeans that had seen better days.
Andre eyed her with a half-smile from his station behind the counter. His white button-down was dusted with flour, sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows. Sandy-blond hair combed just so, steel-gray eyes that flickered amusement and reprimand in equal measure. "You're thirty minutes late," he said. "Lucky for you, the manager's not here yet."
"Can't blame me," Avery shrugged, adjusting the apron. "My place is half an hour away. What's left to prep?"
Andre leaned back, the picture of judgment. "Your specials—mac and cheese, scrambled eggs with toast, bacon and hash browns, and the famous Caesar salad."
Her mouth fell open. "All that? Nobody else can help?"
Ammy, stationed at the chopping board with auburn hair tucked beneath a bandana, grinned without looking up. "Manager says those dishes are your signature. Nobody else touches them."
From the corner, Priscilla crossed her arms—a sleek woman with black hair twisted into a tight chignon, her white blouse crisp as fresh linen. "We've been here since dawn. She strolls in late, and you all act like she's royalty."
Tension thickened the air like steam from a boiling pot.
Andre's jaw clenched, but he kept his gaze fixed elsewhere. "Maybe if you cooked like she did, people would come for your food too."
Priscilla's lips curled into a slow, humorless smile. "Maybe if she showed up on time, she'd deserve it."
Avery planted her hands firmly on the counter, forcing a tight smile. "Don't let me stop you from getting an early start on bitterness, Priscilla."
Their eyes locked, the room crackling with unsaid words, the heat of a simmering storm.