The café's rhythm quickly became part of my life. The mornings were the busiest—students grabbing coffee before class, businessmen in suits scrolling through their phones, and elderly regulars who lingered over tea and newspapers. I kept her head down, cleaning tables, carrying trays, and learning the art of smiling without inviting unwanted attention.
But on a Wednesday morning, the doorbell above the café's entrance chimed, and in walked someone i never expected to see again.
Mr. Davenport.
He looked exactly the same—immaculate suit, gold watch, hair slicked back with precision. I froze mid-step, my hands tightening around the empty coffee cups i was clearing.
For a moment, I hoped he wouldn't recognize me. I turned toward the counter, but his voice cut through the café's soft chatter.
"Isabella?"
The cups rattled in my hands. Slowly, I turned. He was standing there, an eyebrow raised, his gaze moving over me with that same calculating interest i remembered all too well.
"Well, this is… unexpected," he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "I thought you'd have taken my offer by now. Life out here must be… hard."
His words carried that familiar poison—wrapped in politeness but dripping with condescension.
I steadied my breath. "I'm working. That's all that matters."
He chuckled, glancing around the café as if it were beneath him. "You know, I could still give you a better life. You wouldn't have to scrub tables or smell like coffee every day."
"I'm fine here," i said firmly, though my pulse pounded in my ears.
Something in my tone must have caught him off guard. He tilted his head. "Still stubborn, I see. Well… maybe I'll take my coffee black today."
I brought his order to the table without another word. But as i walked away, i noticed Marlene watching from behind the counter, her brow furrowed.
When Mr. Davenport left, Marlene called over. "You know him?" she asked.
"Unfortunately," i replied. "He's… the reason I lost my last job."
Marlene's expression hardened. "Be careful with men like that. They think money buys them everything."
Days passed, but that encounter lingered in my mind. She thought she'd seen the last of Mr. Davenport, but the following week, he returned. And the week after that. Each time, he sat in the same corner seat, ordering the same coffee, his eyes following my every move.
Then one afternoon, something unexpected happened.
He wasn't alone. Sitting across from him was a man much younger—early thirties, sharply dressed but with a warmth in his expression that Mr. Davenport lacked entirely. They spoke quietly, but i caught snippets of their conversation as I cleared nearby tables.
"…investor dinner next week…" "…needs someone reliable to help with the event…"
When i came to take their plates, the younger man smiled at me. "You work here full-time?"
"Yes," i said cautiously.
"I'm hosting a charity gala next weekend. We need extra staff for the evening—serving, setting up tables, that sort of thing. Pays good."
Before I could answer, Mr. Davenport leaned back in his chair, his smirk returning. "She's not really the 'event staff' type. Trust me."
The younger man ignored him and handed me a card. "If you're interested, call this number. Tell them Daniel recommended you."
I slipped the card into her apron, thanked him, and walked away.
That night, i stared at the card for a long time. Part of me hesitated—what if this was some trap? But something in Daniel's eyes had been different. Sincerely. No hidden claws.
The next morning, i made the call.
The gala night was like stepping into another world. Chandeliers glittered overhead, and the scent of roses and champagne filled the air. I wore a simple black uniform provided by the event team, my hair neatly tied back. i moved through the room with trays of sparkling drinks, careful not to meet too many eyes.
Midway through the evening, Daniel approached me. "You're doing great," he said, his voice warm. "Thanks for stepping in last minute."
She smiled faintly. "Thank you for giving me the chance."
They spoke briefly before he was pulled away by another guest. But as the night went on, she noticed him glancing her way—not with Mr. Davenport's predatory gaze, but with curiosity, as if he were trying to piece together her story.
By the end of the night, when the last guest had left, Daniel found me again. "You're not like the other temps," he said. "You're… sharper. You handle yourself well. I could use someone like you more permanently."
Her breath caught. "Doing what?"
"Personal assistant work. Scheduling, errands, and event help. It pays well."
For a moment, i thought of Mr. Davenport—how he had tried to buy her dignity. But Daniel's offer didn't feel like that. This wasn't about control; it was about trust.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt the ground beneath me shift—not from another fall, but from the possibility of climbing higher.
Working for Daniel was unlike anything i had experienced. His office was busy but professional, and unlike my previous employers, he didn't treat me like i was invisible. Within weeks, i had learned to manage his schedules, organize meetings, and even oversee small events.
There was one name that kept appearing in Daniel's calendar—a "Marco Deluca." The first time i saw it, i thought nothing of it. But it came up again and again, sometimes in urgent, last-minute meetings that Daniel would leave for without explaining much. He'd return hours later, looking a little more guarded than usual.
I never asked. Curiosity was a luxury i couldn't afford in her position.
What I didn't know was that Marco Deluca wasn't just another business associate. He was the heir to one of the most feared and powerful Mafia families in the city—a man whose name was rarely spoken above a whisper. Daniel and Marco had grown up together, their friendship a complicated mix of loyalty and dangerous entanglements.
One rainy Thursday, Marco came to Daniel's office for a private meeting. I didn't see him—Daniel had sent me out on an errand minutes before—but when I returned, the air in the room felt heavier, like the aftermath of an unspoken storm.
Life settled back into routine until one Friday evening, when my coworker from the café days, Clara, paid her a visit. Clara was dressed sharply, a leather bag slung over her shoulder, her perfume sweet but overpowering.
"You look… different," Clara said, eyeing Isabella's neat office attire. "Guess you landed something good."
"I'm working for Daniel Hayes now," i replied.
Clara's eyebrows rose. "Oh? I've heard of him. Big money."
Isabella laughed softly. "It's just work. I'm not exactly swimming in it yet."
Clara leaned in, lowering her voice. "Well, I've got something that will get you swimming in it. One night's work, and you could make what you make here in a month."
I frowned. "What kind of work?"
"It's an event," Clara said smoothly. "A private one. High-class. Just pouring drinks, chatting with guests, nothing heavy. You dress nice, smile, and leave with cash in your hand. No contracts, no taxes, no questions."
It sounded tempting—rent was due again, and her paycheck barely stretched past groceries. She told herself it was harmless. "Just an event," Clara had said.
The night of the "event," i arrived at an upscale hotel suite. Everything was polished—marble floors, crystal glasses, and the faint hum of expensive music. But within minutes, she realized something was wrong. The "guests" were all men, their eyes roaming over her in a way that made her skin crawl.
Clara appeared at her side, whispering, "Don't be nervous. They're big spenders. You just need to keep one company for the night. You'll make triple if you—"
I stepped back. "This isn't what you told me."
Clara's smile didn't falter. "It's still an event. Just… a more private kind. One night, Isabella. You won't have to worry about rent for months."
Her stomach turned. It was the same old trap, dressed in prettier clothes. She remembered Mr. Davenport's smirk, Tasha's taunt on the street, and the nights she cried herself to sleep after selling pieces of her soul just to survive.
She shook her head. "No."
Clara's tone shifted, irritation creeping in. "Suit yourself. But you'll walk out with nothing, and don't expect me to call again."
I didn't care. She left that suite without a cent, her pride intact but her finances no better.
The next morning, Daniel called her into his office. His expression was unreadable. "I heard you were seen at the Lennox Hotel last night."
Her breath caught. "It's not what you think. I was told it was a serving job, but—"
He held up a hand. "I believe you. But Isabella… people in this city talk. And sometimes the wrong people listen. Be careful where you let yourself be seen."
She nodded, grateful he wasn't accusing her. But what unsettled her most wasn't Daniel's warning—it was the thought of who exactly had seen her.
Because that same morning, in a darkened office across town, Marco Deluca poured himself a drink, a faint smirk playing on his lips.
"So that's the girl Daniel keeps around," he said, more to himself than to the man sitting across from him. "Interesting."