Elena Rivera didn't look like the type of girl who would end up in a café at 6:30 in the morning, fighting a soggy apron and serving overpriced lattes to New York's elite. But here she was—again. Her brown hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, a few loose strands framing her tired face. She had dark circles under her eyes from sleepless nights spent trying to figure out how to pay the bills.
The clink of the espresso machine hummed in the background as she wiped down the counter for the hundredth time that morning. The shift was already dragging.
"Two vanilla lattes, Elena!" Sarah, her coworker, called from the other side of the café. "And don't forget the extra foam!"
"Got it," Elena muttered, keeping her focus on the counter. She was so used to the routine, it felt like it was all she had left.
As she prepared the lattes, she noticed the constant hum of activity around her—the distant chatter of customers, the sound of clinking cups, the soft shuffle of feet on the polished floor. It was the same every day: the early-morning crowd, all glued to their phones or laptops, drinking their ridiculously overpriced coffee as if it were their only reason for existing.
The door chimes rang, announcing a newcomer, but Elena barely glanced up. She was used to the parade of suits and dresses that swept in each morning. They'd all come in for their daily caffeine fix, grumbling about their busy lives, but most of them never even acknowledged her.
But then she heard it—the unmistakable sound of a loud crash, followed by a gust of cold wind. The door had swung open with far more force than usual, and a gust of rain had followed the man who had walked in. Elena looked up just in time to see a tall, broad-shouldered figure step inside.
He was soaked, his black suit clinging to his frame as he brushed off the storm that had clearly taken him by surprise. The man's presence was magnetic. He moved with an effortless confidence, as though the world bent around him. He had the air of someone who didn't just enter a room—he owned it.
For a moment, Elena forgot all about the lattes. She watched him scan the room, his sharp eyes flicking over the tables, as if making a mental note of every detail. He was... different. There was an intensity about him that set him apart from the usual crowd of businessmen.
He didn't notice her at first. But then, he turned his gaze toward her, his eyes locking with hers, and the world seemed to slow down for a beat. His gaze was cool, calculated, and unyielding. She felt a strange shiver run down her spine. He had those eyes—dark, piercing, and filled with secrets, as if they could see straight through her.
For the briefest of moments, she wondered what it would be like to be the one standing where he was. To walk into a room and have everyone pay attention, to be the one who made people look twice. But then reality hit her. She was just Elena Rivera—waitress, daughter, big sister, stuck in a life that felt as though it was spiraling out of control.
The man made his way to the counter, his footsteps measured and deliberate. As he approached, Elena quickly went back to work, trying to push the unsettling feeling in her chest down. This wasn't the first time she'd served someone rich or powerful, but there was something different about him. Something that made her heart race, just a little.
"You're new here," he said, his voice low and smooth—almost too smooth. The words themselves seemed to carry weight, as if every syllable was calculated. His gaze didn't leave her face as he spoke. "Two vanilla lattes. Extra foam."
She blinked, taken aback by the directness of his comment. New here? She had been working at this café for the past year, and if there was one thing she'd learned, it was that people didn't look at her. Not like this. Not the way he was. She gave a small nod, trying to maintain her composure.
"Coming right up," she said, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest.
As she prepared the lattes, she couldn't help but glance at him again. He stood there, tall and imposing, like some kind of modern-day royalty. His suit was tailored to perfection, and even though his hair was still damp from the rain, it somehow only added to his aloof charm. He looked as though he had just stepped off the cover of a magazine—effortlessly elegant.
When she slid the lattes across the counter, his eyes followed the motion, but he didn't immediately reach for the drinks. Instead, he looked at her, studying her with a faint, knowing smile.
"You're not like the other baristas here," he observed, his tone somehow playful, yet still commanding.
Elena's fingers froze on the counter. It wasn't a compliment—it was a statement. He was trying to read her, to figure her out. She resisted the urge to squirm under his gaze.
"I'm just here for the paycheck," she replied flatly, hoping to end the conversation.
His smile only widened. "Good answer."
There was a beat of silence between them. She wasn't sure what to make of it—whether he was mocking her or genuinely interested. Something about his presence made the room feel smaller, more suffocating. But she couldn't put her finger on it.
She quickly turned away to grab a rag to wipe down the counter, trying to regain some sense of normalcy. She'd had enough of rich, entitled customers to know that once they were done, they'd leave without so much as a tip.
But as she finished cleaning, she glanced back at him. He was already sitting at one of the corner tables, his eyes now buried in his phone, his attention drifting elsewhere.
Elena shook her head. It's just another rich guy, she told herself. Just another man who wouldn't even remember your name tomorrow.
But for some reason, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that this was no ordinary customer.
And that thought along with the weight of his gaze kept her mind spinning for the rest of the day.