Elara's POV
I've watched the flash drive footage twelve times in two days, and I still can't breathe right.
My hands shake as I wipe down the café counter for the third time tonight. It's 2:43 AM, and I should close up, but the thought of going back to my tiny apartment above the café—where that flash drive sits on my nightstand like a bomb waiting to explode—makes my stomach twist.
The footage was from a traffic camera. Grainy, time-stamped, horrifying.
My mother's car didn't crash because of wet roads or bad luck.
Someone cut her brake lines.
And the video showed a man in a black jacket walking away from her car in the parking lot thirty minutes before she died. His face was hidden, but he wore a ring—distinctive, with a red stone that caught the streetlight.
I've seen that ring before. I just can't remember where.
The café door chimes, jolting me back to reality.
Three men stumble in, reeking of alcohol and bad decisions. I recognize the type immediately—college kids from the university, still drunk from bar-hopping, looking for one last place to cause trouble before heading home.
"We're about to close," I say, keeping my voice steady.
The tallest one—wearing a backwards cap—grins. "Aw, come on, sweetheart. Just some coffee. We'll behave."
I don't believe him for a second, but I need every dollar I can get. "Fine. Sit down. I'll bring menus."
They sprawl across the corner booth, loud and obnoxious, making jokes I pretend not to hear. I take their orders—three black coffees, which they probably won't even drink—and turn back to the counter.
That's when the door chimes again.
And my heart stops.
It's him.
The stranger from the bridge.
He walks in like he owns not just the café but the entire city. Same expensive suit, same storm-gray eyes, same aura of controlled danger. His dark hair is perfect now, not rain-soaked, and in the café's warm lighting, I can see just how devastatingly handsome he actually is.
He's also looking right at me like he expected to find me here.
"Coffee," he says, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine. "Black."
I nod, not trusting my voice. My hands shake as I pour, and I nearly spill it twice.
He takes the cup, leaves exact change on the counter, and walks to the booth farthest from the drunk guys. He sits with his back to the wall—a position where he can see everything—and pulls out his phone like this is completely normal.
Like he didn't send me $250,000 and a flash drive proving my mother was murdered.
I'm ninety-percent sure it's him. The note was signed "C.A." And something about the way he looked at me on the bridge—like he knew my whole story—tells me this isn't coincidence.
"Hey, sweetheart!" Backwards Cap calls out. "This coffee tastes like dirt!"
I grit my teeth. "Then don't drink it."
"Ooh, feisty." He stands up, swaying slightly. His friends laugh, encouraging him. "What else you got that's hot around here?"
The other customers—a tired nurse and an elderly man reading a newspaper—look uncomfortable. The nurse starts gathering her things.
"Sit down," I say firmly. "Or leave."
"Make me." He moves closer, backing me against the counter.
My heart pounds. I've dealt with drunk jerks before, but something about tonight—about being exhausted and scared and angry about everything—makes my control snap.
"Touch me and I'll break your nose," I say, my voice deadly calm.
He laughs. "You and what army—"
"Her army of one is sufficient."
The stranger's voice cuts through the café like a knife through butter.
He's standing now, and even though he hasn't moved closer, the temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. His gray eyes are fixed on Backwards Cap with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Walk away," the stranger says quietly. "Now."
"Who the hell are you?" Backwards Cap blusters, but his bravado is cracking.
"Someone you don't want to meet in a dark alley. Or a bright café. Or anywhere, really." The stranger takes one step forward. Just one. "I'm going to count to three. If you're still here, I make a phone call. Five minutes later, campus security has video footage of you vandalizing local businesses. Ten minutes later, your parents know why you're being expelled. Fifteen minutes later, that job offer from your dad's firm disappears. Your choice."
Backwards Cap's face goes white. "How do you—"
"One."
The three guys practically trip over each other running for the door.
Silence falls over the café.
The stranger returns to his booth like nothing happened, takes a sip of his coffee, and goes back to his phone.
I stand there, frozen, my heart racing for entirely different reasons now.
The nurse gives me a sympathetic smile and leaves. The elderly man chuckles, shakes his head, and returns to his newspaper.
I walk over to the stranger's booth on shaking legs.
"Thank you," I say.
"You're welcome." He doesn't look up from his phone.
"Are you going to tell me who you are?"
"No."
"Did you send me that money?"
"No."
"Liar."
That makes him look up, and when his eyes meet mine, I see amusement dancing in them. "Prove it."
"The note was signed C.A."
"Common initials."
"You knew exactly where I'd be tonight."
"Lucky guess."
"You sent me footage of my mother's murder."
The amusement dies. His expression goes deadly serious. "If someone sent you that, they're either trying to help you or setting you up. You need to figure out which."
"Which one are you doing?"
He stands, pulling out his wallet. He leaves a hundred-dollar bill on the table for a six-dollar coffee.
"Helping," he says quietly. "Whether you believe it or not."
He walks toward the door, and panic claws at my chest. I can't let him leave. Not when he's the only person who seems to know the truth.
"Wait!" I call out. "At least tell me your name."
He pauses at the door, hand on the handle. For a long moment, he doesn't turn around.
Then, over his shoulder: "Names are dangerous, Elara. The less you know about me, the safer you are."
"How do you know my name?"
But he's already gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
I rush to the window, but he's disappeared into the night like a ghost.
When I turn back, I see what he left on the table.
Not just money.
Another flash drive.
This one has a sticky note: "The man with the red ring. His name is Victor Chen. Marcus's uncle. The one who gave the order."
My blood turns to ice.
Marcus's family didn't just destroy my career and reputation.
They killed my mother.
And Marcus knew.
He knew the whole time.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
"Check your café's security footage from last Tuesday, 11 PM. You'll see who's been sabotaging your equipment and inflating your debt. These people won't stop, Elara. You need protection you can't afford alone. I'll be in touch. - C.A."
I pull up the security footage with trembling fingers.
And there, clear as day, I see him.
Marcus.
In my café.
Pouring something into the espresso machine—probably the thing that broke two days later, costing me $3,000 to replace.
Behind him stands Vivienne, keeping watch.
They were here. In my mother's café. Deliberately destroying it.
While pretending to comfort me about the scandal.
While Vivienne posted sympathy messages on social media.
While Marcus sent me texts saying he "still cared about me as a friend."
The rage that fills me is so pure, so white-hot, that I actually see spots.
I grab my phone and pull up Marcus's number.
But before I can call, another text comes through.
Unknown Number: "Don't confront them yet. You do that now, you die like your mother. Trust the stranger. He's the only reason you're still alive. Check your left rear tire. They tried again tonight."
My heart stops.
I run outside into the cold night air, around to where my car is parked in the alley.
My left rear tire is completely flat.
But that's not what makes me scream.
There's a note tucked under the wiper blade, written in red ink that looks sickeningly like blood:
"ACCIDENTS HAPPEN. STOP ASKING QUESTIONS. THIS IS YOUR ONLY WARNING."
And underneath, drawn in that same red ink, is a symbol I recognize from the flash drive footage.
The Chen family crest.