ARIA
Two weeks.
That's how long I've been working at The Grind, and somehow, I'm still alive. Barely.
The money helps the paycheck, the tips, even the free leftover pastries I sneak home to Dad. For the first time in months, I can pay Mrs. Evans on time, cover some of Dad's meds, and buy actual groceries that aren't instant noodles. It's not much, but it's something.
Even the arrogant, insufferable jerk who drinks double espressos like he's fueling a war effort has become… tolerable. Kind of.
Dalton Gray... yes, that Dalton Gray billionaire, walking iceberg, destroyer of confidence, and somehow, the reason I now make the best espresso shots in the city. I know this because he leaves tips big enough to cover half our electric bill. Only for me.
I don't know if it's pity or a twisted compliment, but I take it.
I probably deserve it it for all the shit he put me through ever since we met.
He hasn't changed since day one still cold, still rude, still looking at me like I'm a riddle he doesn't have time to solve. But every once in a while, I catch him staring not in a creepy way, but in a what the hell are you? kind of way.
And maybe I stare too.
Okay I stare...alot
Because damn him.
He's beautiful.
And I hate that.
His voice, his scent, the way his suits fit like they were sewn by angels with a superiority complex he's the kind of man who ruins women. And I have enough ruin already.
So, I deal with him the only way I know how: sarcasm.
And it drives him crazy that I don't flinch when he's rude. It's the one victory I cling to.
Theres something about him that makes me lose my temper.
But today… today is different.
My head feels heavy. My body feels like it's made of lead. My blood sugar has been low since I woke up, and the stress of Dad's condition hasn't helped. He's been coughing more, sleeping less, and the doctor's words echo in my head like a cruel chant.
"It's incurable, Aria. We can manage the pain, but the cancer has spread too far. Make him comfortable. That's all we can do now."
Comfortable.
How do you make someone comfortable when you're watching them fade right in front of you?
I can't even afford comfort.
My chest tightens as I remember his face this morning pale, tired, still trying to joke even as he could barely sit up.
I promised I'd be okay.
I lied.
By the time Dalton walks in, I've already spilled milk twice, snapped at Ben, and dropped a spoon. My head feels fuzzy, my stomach empty, and my patience thinner than a coffee filter.
Then the door opens.
And there he is.
Same colour suit. Same unreadable eyes. Same aura that makes everyone in the café instantly shut up.
I straighten automatically, like muscle memory. I should smile. I should act normal. But I can't. Not today.
He steps up to the counter, gaze flicking over me with that detached, ice-cold precision.
"Double espresso," he says curtly.
"Good morning to you too," I mutter before I can stop myself.
He glances up, slow and sharp. "Excuse me?"
I exhale. "Nothing."
"You should be careful with your tone," he says flatly. "Not everyone tolerates disrespect."
"I'm not everyone," I fire back.
His brow arches slightly, just a fraction. "Clearly."
Something in my chest twists anger, exhaustion, I don't even know anymore. "Do you ever say please, or is that beneath billionaires too?"
"I don't pay people to teach me manners," he says coolly.
I slam the portafilter into place harder than necessary. "Right. Because God forbid you act human for once."
I should have kept my mouth shut.
A few customers glance over, sensing tension. Mel, the manager, peeks from her office door with wide eyes.
Dalton's jaw tightens. "You're treading a very thin line, Miss Davis."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Gray," I say with mock politeness. "Would you like me to brew your coffee with tears next time, or just my crushed soul?"
"Neither," he replies calmly, but his voice is lower now, dangerous. "Just competence would suffice."
I have been perfect especially with his coffee. what more does he wants from me.
He is always complaining.
That does it.
I turn, my hands shaking from more than low sugar. "You know what? Maybe if you weren't so damn entitled, you'd realize we're not your servants. We're people."
The café goes silent. You could hear a coffee bean drop.
He looks at me really looks and for a second, I think he's going to explode. But instead, he just tilts his head, voice perfectly steady.
"Mel."
Fuck I think I took it abit too far today.
He is livid.
And I'm back to my senses and I feel embarrassed
Our manager appears instantly, pale and trembling. "Yes, Mr. Gray?"
"I suggest you get a handle on your employees," he says coldly, eyes never leaving mine. "Some of them seem to have forgotten basic respect."
Mel stammers. "Y-yes, sir. I'm terribly sorry. It won't happen again."
He places a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. "For the inconvenience."
Then he takes his coffee, turns, and leaves not a single glance back.
The door locks softly.
Mel rounds on me the moment he's gone. "Aria, what the hell was that?"
"I.." My voice cracks. "I'm sorry, I just.."
"You just what? Lost your mind?" She rubs her temples. "Do you have any idea who that man is?"
I look down, my throat tight. "Yeah. A jerk."
Mel sighs. "He's our most influential client. If he complains to corporate, we're done. You are on your last warning you are a good employee but I wont have you take us down because you can't control yourself, Aria. I mean it."
I nod numbly. "It won't happen again."
"It better not," she mutters and walks away.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at the espresso machine like it just ruined my life.
Later after my shift I walk to my car slower than usual. My body hurts. My pride hurts more. I drove home even slower.
I keep replaying the scene over and over, my stupid mouth running wild when I should've just smiled and let him go. But everything everything felt too heavy today.
The exhaustion. The fear. Dad's illness. The endless bills.
And him.
That man.
Dalton Gray.
Why did he have to show up, all sharp edges and cold eyes, and push every single button I had left?
I know I should hate him. And I do.
But even now, I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me like I'd somehow gotten under his skin, and he hated himself for it.
Maybe I imagined it. Maybe I'm just tired.
Either way, I can't afford to think about him.
I have enough battles to fight.
That night, after helping Dad to bed, I sit on the kitchen floor, my back against the counter, holding my head in my hands.
I'm tired of pretending I can do this alone.
But tomorrow… I'll wake up.
I'll go back to work.
And I'll face him again.
Because that's what I do.
Even if it kills me a little more every day.