Morning light crept across the thin curtains of Lena's small apartment, chasing away the night's chill but not the ache in her chest. She sat at the edge of the bed, the hem of her now-dry black dress clutched in her hands.
The scent of perfume from last night's ballroom still clung faintly to the fabric—a cruel reminder of where she had never truly belonged.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
A message from Ethan.
> Thanks for understanding. Take care of yourself.
That was it.
No apology. No explanation. Just a casual farewell as if six years of promises could be reduced to six words.
Lena dropped the phone onto the bed and pressed her palms against her eyes. The tears came again, uninvited. You knew he'd move on, she told herself, but you didn't think he'd do it this easily.
When her breathing steadied, she rose and walked to the small table by the window. Bills waited in a crooked stack; a cracked mirror leaned against the wall. She caught her reflection and almost didn't recognize the woman staring back—tired eyes, pale cheeks, a mouth that had forgotten how to smile.
"Enough," she whispered. "No more crying."
Her shift at the diner started in an hour. She needed to look human again, even if her heart was shredded.
---
By nine a.m., the city was alive with noise.
Car horns, the rush of buses, vendors shouting their morning specials. Lena wove through the crowd, her uniform apron folded over her arm.
The diner where she worked sat on the edge of downtown—close enough for businesspeople to grab breakfast, far enough that rent stayed low. Inside, the air smelled of coffee, bacon, and bleach. The morning rush had already started.
"Lena! You're late again," called Maya, her co-worker and closest thing to a sister. "You okay? You look like someone stole your puppy."
Lena tied her apron and forced a smile. "Just didn't sleep well."
Maya eyed her. "This about your boyfriend?"
"Ex," Lena corrected softly. "And yeah."
"Good," Maya said, flipping a plate of pancakes onto the counter. "He looked like the type who'd flirt with his own reflection."
Lena gave a small laugh. It was the first sound of warmth that had escaped her lips all day.
The bell above the door jingled. A group of men in suits entered, their watches gleaming, their laughter loud. They chose the window booth—customers who expected fast service and perfect manners. Lena grabbed her notepad and approached them.
"Good morning," she said, her voice polite. "What can I get you?"
One of the men looked up—and froze. His gray eyes widened slightly before narrowing again in quiet amusement.
Lena nearly dropped her notepad.
"Mr… Blackwood?" she breathed.
Adrian sat at the head of the booth, dressed sharply as ever, the contrast between him and the greasy diner almost absurd. His expression didn't change much—just that faint ghost of a smile.
"Miss Hart," he said evenly. "We meet again."
His companions glanced between them, curious. "You know her, Adrian?"
"She attended my party last night," Adrian said, eyes still fixed on her. "Quite the entrance."
Lena felt her cheeks flame. "I'm sorry about that," she murmured. "I didn't mean to trespass."
He leaned back, his gaze unreadable. "Relax. No damage done." Then, to the others: "Best coffee in town here, gentlemen. You'll see."
As they placed their orders, Lena scribbled quickly, avoiding his stare. When she turned to leave, Adrian's voice followed.
"Bring me your recommendation," he said. "Surprise me."
She nodded and hurried to the counter, her pulse unsteady. Of all the people in the city, he had to walk into her diner?
---
When she returned with his order—black coffee and a blueberry muffin—he accepted it with a slight nod. "So this is your world," he said quietly, once his colleagues were distracted by their conversation.
"It's honest work," she replied, defensive.
"I never said otherwise."
"Then why say it like that?"
He studied her face, as if weighing something invisible. "Because you look like someone trying to convince herself she belongs in a place she's already outgrown."
The comment stung because it felt true.
She looked away. "I'm just doing what I can."
He took a sip of the coffee. "Doing what you can is how people survive. Doing what you're meant to do is how people live."
Lena frowned. "You talk like a philosopher."
"I talk like a man who's seen people trade their dreams for comfort," he said. "Don't be one of them."
Before she could reply, one of the suited men called for the check. Adrian rose, adjusting his cufflinks. "We'll be in touch, gentlemen," he said to his companions, then turned to her. "Keep the change."
She blinked at the thick wad of bills he left under the saucer—far more than the total. "Wait, sir—"
But the door had already closed behind him, leaving only the faint scent of his cologne and the heavy flutter of curiosity in her chest.
---
That night, Lena walked home with the envelope of tips clutched tightly in her hand. She had planned to forget him—to push the stranger from her mind—but his words followed her like an echo.
Doing what you can is how people survive…
At her apartment door, she paused. On the floor lay an envelope with her name written in neat, bold letters. No address, no sender. Just Lena Hart.
Heart pounding, she tore it open.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
> If you're ready to live instead of survive, come to Blackwood Holdings tomorrow. 9 a.m. sharp.
— A.B.
Her fingers trembled. She looked down the dim hallway, half-expecting someone to be there.
No one.
She sank onto the stairs, the letter shaking in her hands. Was it a joke? A test? Why would Adrian Blackwood—of all people—want to see her?
One thing was certain:
If she went, her life would never look the same again.
If she didn't, she would always wonder what could have been.
The clock on the wall ticked toward midnight as she whispered into the silence,
"I have nothing left to lose."