Aylia's POV
The café didn't care about high school politics.
That was one of the reasons I liked it.
People came here for curated calm—soft music, clean lines, the illusion of effortlessness. No lockers. No whispers. No eyes tracking where I sat or who I spoke to. Just orders, schedules, and the quiet dignity of doing your job well.
By the time I clocked in that afternoon, the lunch rush was already swelling.
Steam hissed from the espresso machines. Plates clinked. The air smelled like citrus cleaner and burnt sugar. My body slipped into routine automatically—apron on, hair secured, posture straight.
Work version of me didn't flinch.
She couldn't afford to.
"Table twelve needs refills," Mira called.
"I've got it," I said, already moving.
My legs ached faintly, but I ignored it. Ache was background noise. Manageable. I carried the tray with practiced steadiness, smiled where required, apologized when expected. It was easier than school. Here, people didn't pretend kindness. They either tipped you or didn't.
Halfway through the rush, the front door opened.
I felt it before I saw it.
A shift in the room. A slight pause in the air. Like something had entered that didn't belong.
I looked up.
Xavier Atlas walked in first.
Perfectly composed. Dark jacket. That effortless confidence that made rooms rearrange themselves around him. He scanned the café like he owned it—like he was already cataloging exits, people, reactions.
Behind him—
Alicia Vigere.
Her presence was unmistakable. Glossy hair. Immaculate makeup. Smile sharp enough to cut glass. Two girls flanked her, close and attentive, like satellites waiting for instruction.
My stomach tightened.
Of all the places.
Of course they had to come here.
I dropped my gaze immediately, turning back toward the counter. Pretended I hadn't seen them. Ignoring the sudden heat behind my eyes was nothing.
Mira leaned in. "Isn't that—"
"Yes," I said too quickly.
She frowned. "You okay?"
"I'm fine."
Lie.
They were seated in my section.
Of course they were.
I stood frozen for half a second too long before forcing myself to move. Tray in hand. Back straight. Smile in place. The professional one. The one that didn't shake.
As I approached the table, Alicia looked up slowly.
Recognition bloomed across her face.
Then delight.
"Well," she said brightly. "Would you look at that."
Xavier's gaze snapped to me.
Not surprised.
Not confused.
Focused.
My pulse stuttered.
"Good afternoon," I said evenly. "Can I start you with drinks?"
Alicia leaned back in her chair, eyes sweeping me from head to toe. "You work here?"
"Yes."
She smiled wider. "I didn't realize this was… part of your brand."
One of the girls laughed softly.
I ignored it.
"Drinks?" I repeated.
Xavier didn't speak. He just watched.
Alicia ordered slowly. Elaborately. Changed her mind twice. Asked questions she already knew the answers to. The others followed her lead.
When I turned to leave, she added, "Oh—and make sure the cups are spotless. We wouldn't want your boss thinking you're careless."
The implication landed hard.
I nodded once and walked away.
My hands shook slightly as I prepared the tray. I hated that. Forced them still. Breathed through it.
When I returned, Alicia was already scanning the room, voice just loud enough to carry.
"It must be exhausting," she said, "trying to be impressive everywhere."
I placed the drinks down carefully.
"Is there anything else you need?" I asked.
Alicia looked up at me. "Actually? Yes."
She lifted her cup, frowned exaggeratedly. "This isn't what I ordered."
I checked. It was exactly what she'd ordered.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I can remake it."
She sighed theatrically. "Figures."
One of the girls murmured, "Maybe multitasking isn't her strength."
Xavier still hadn't said a word.
That hurt more than the comments.
I took the cup and turned away.
Behind me, Alicia's voice followed. "You know, it makes sense now."
I stopped.
"I was wondering why Xavier was suddenly interested in… charity cases."
Silence spread outward.
I felt every eye on me. Customers. Staff. Strangers who didn't know my name but would remember the moment.
I turned back slowly.
"Please lower your voice," I said quietly.
Alicia tilted her head. "Why? Embarrassed?"
Xavier's jaw tightened.
"Alicia," he said finally. "Enough."
She smiled at him sweetly. "I'm just making conversation."
She turned back to me. "You don't mind, do you? Or is this another environment you're pretending to belong in?"
Something inside me cracked—not loudly. Not visibly.
Just enough.
"I'm working," I said. "If there's an issue with service, I can call my manager."
Her smile sharpened. "Please do."
I did.
By the time I returned with my manager, Alicia was already apologizing—gracious, composed, perfectly believable.
"Misunderstanding," she said. "She seemed overwhelmed."
My manager looked at me, concerned but cautious. "Aylia?"
"I'm fine," I said.
Again.
They left soon after.
As they stood, Alicia leaned close enough that only I could hear her.
"You don't belong in his world," she whispered. "And you don't belong here either. Pick one before it picks you."
Then she was gone.
Xavier lingered.
For half a second, I thought he might say something.
He didn't.
He followed them out.
The door closed behind him.
My knees nearly buckled.
Mira grabbed my arm. "Hey—sit down. I'll cover."
"I'm okay," I said automatically.
She didn't argue. Just guided me to the back.
In the quiet storage room, surrounded by boxes and cleaning supplies, I finally let myself breathe.
It hurt.
Not physically—not yet.
Emotionally. Heavier. Deeper.
I wiped my face, squared my shoulders, and went back out.
Because that's what I do.
Later, when I locked up and stepped into the night air, exhaustion settled over me like a second skin.
I walked home slower than usual.
Not because I was weak.
Because I was tired of being strong where no one noticed.
And somewhere behind that exhaustion, a thought kept circling—quiet, persistent, dangerous.
Xavier Atlas saw exactly what was happening.
And he let it happen anyway.
That realization stayed with me all the way home.
And it hurt more than anything Alicia said.
...
Xavier's POV
I didn't plan to go to the café.
That was the lie I told myself as we pulled up to the curb.
The place was predictable—glass walls, polished stone, the kind of luxury that pretended it was effortless. I'd seen it before, passing by on the way to somewhere else. I knew she worked. Alicia knew too.
That wasn't coincidence.
Alicia adjusted her sunglasses as she stepped out of the car, already smiling like the day had aligned itself for her benefit. Her friends followed, laughter light, rehearsed.
I scanned the interior before the door even closed behind us.
Found her instantly.
Aylia stood behind the counter, apron tied neatly, hair pulled back with the kind of care that suggested rules mattered here. She looked different. Smaller, somehow. Not diminished—contained. Like she'd folded herself into something efficient and careful.
Working version.
My chest tightened.
I ignored it.
We took a table in her section. Alicia chose it deliberately. Window-adjacent. Visible. Central.
Power always liked an audience.
Aylia didn't look up right away. When she did, recognition flashed—and vanished just as fast. She lowered her eyes, professional mask sliding into place.
That should've stopped this.
It didn't.
She approached with a tray, posture straight, voice even. "Good afternoon. Can I start you with drinks?"
Alicia's smile was immediate.
"You work here?" she asked, too pleasantly.
I watched Aylia's shoulders tense. Barely. Controlled.
"Yes."
The word was simple. Solid.
Alicia leaned back, gaze sweeping her slowly. "I didn't realize this was… part of your narrative."
One of the girls laughed.
Aylia didn't react.
I should have said something then.
I didn't.
I told myself this was observation. That I needed to see how Aylia handled pressure outside the school environment. How adaptable she really was.
Control liked disguises.
Alicia ordered with deliberate complication—questions, revisions, indulgent pauses. Aylia took it without flinching, nodded, turned away.
Her hands shook when she reached the counter.
I noticed.
That irritated me.
Not because she was nervous.
Because Alicia had caused it.
And because I'd allowed it.
When Aylia returned, Alicia complained. Loudly. Incorrectly.
I watched Aylia check the order, apologize anyway. Watched the way she absorbed the insult without protest.
Alicia kept going.
"It must be exhausting," she said, voice pitched just high enough to carry, "trying to be impressive everywhere."
I saw it then—the way attention began to drift toward the table. How strangers' eyes sharpened with curiosity.
Public humiliation only worked if it spread.
Aylia asked if they needed anything else.
Professional. Controlled.
Alicia leaned forward. "Actually? Yes."
She criticized the cup. The service. The implication was clear: careless, unqualified, out of place.
Still, Aylia held.
Then Alicia escalated.
"I was wondering," she said lightly, "why Xavier suddenly developed a taste for charity cases."
The words cut clean.
Aylia froze.
So did I.
That wasn't schoolyard cruelty. That was calculated exposure.
I felt heat rise in my chest—sharp, immediate.
"Alicia," I said. "Enough."
She looked at me, surprised for half a second.
"I'm just talking," she replied sweetly.
She turned back to Aylia. "Or is this another environment you're pretending to belong in?"
Something in Aylia shifted.
Not fear.
Not embarrassment.
Resolve.
She asked Alicia to lower her voice. Calm. Controlled. No tremor.
That shouldn't have impressed me.
It did.
Alicia called her embarrassed. Challenged her authority. Invited the manager into it.
I watched Aylia leave to get one.
And for the first time since walking in, I felt something uncomfortably close to regret.
Alicia smiled like she'd already won.
The manager came. Alicia became gracious. Polite. Reasonable. Apologetic in a way that painted Aylia as unstable instead of wronged.
I hated how easily it worked.
When they stood to leave, Alicia leaned toward Aylia and whispered something I couldn't hear.
Aylia didn't respond.
Didn't even look at her.
That was worse.
Outside, Alicia laughed softly, satisfied. Her friends followed.
I lingered.
Aylia stood behind the counter again, hands braced lightly on the surface like she was grounding herself.
For a moment, I considered going back.
Saying something.
Anything.
I didn't.
Because intervening now would mean admitting I'd let it happen.
And that would mean responsibility.
I turned and followed Alicia out.
The night air was sharp.
Alicia glanced at me, eyes glittering. "You didn't stop me."
"You pushed," I replied.
She shrugged. "You watched."
She wasn't wrong.
"You like knowing where people break," she continued. "I just speed things up."
I didn't answer.
Across the street, through the café window, I could still see Aylia moving—back straight, expression neutral, doing her job like nothing had happened.
That was when something inside me twisted.
Not guilt.
Possession.
She hadn't looked at me when I left.
Not once.
That bothered me more than Alicia ever could.
As we drove away, Alicia leaned back, satisfied. "You're already invested."
I stared out the window.
"No," I said.
She smiled anyway.
Because she knew.
And so did I.
I hadn't gone to the café to observe.
I'd gone to assert control.
And instead, I'd watched someone endure something she shouldn't have had to—because of me.
That realization didn't soften me.
It hardened something.
If this was already happening without rules—
Then maybe it was time to set some.
Even if the cost was her.
Even if the cost was me.
And for the first time, I understood something dangerous.
I didn't want Aylia Zehir to leave my orbit.
I wanted to decide what happened to her next.
And that thought stayed with me long after the café lights disappeared from view.