DALTON
Two weeks.
That's how long she had been working at The Grind, and my world had become… annoyingly unpredictable.
I told myself it was about the coffee. The Grind was a constant, a small, controlled part of my day where I could demand perfection and receive it. The coffee was a tool, a caffeine delivery system I needed to maintain my edge.
But that was a lie, and I was too intelligent to believe my own lies for long.
The truth was, my morning trip to The Grind had become about her. Aria Davis.
Ever since I laid eyes on her two weeks ago, the girls I used to bring home seemed boring. Empty. Their laughter was shrill, their conversations pointless. I hadn't felt the urge to call any of them in over a week. They were all the same, and she was… different. A problem I hadn't solved.
I found myself looking forward to the brief, electric clash of our interactions. I would never, ever admit that, not even in the privacy of my own mind. Instead, I framed it as observation. She was an anomaly in my otherwise orderly universe, and I needed to understand her to correctly file her away.
She was insolent, messy with her emotions, and far too pretty for her own good. I saw the exhaustion shadowing her eyes, the way her hands sometimes shook slightly when she was stressed. I saw the defiant lift of her chin when I was at my most cold. She didn't flinch. She pushed back.
And I, against all my better judgment, kept pushing her.
The biggest tips were my own private joke. A way to say, "I see your struggle, and I am so far above it that I can throw money at it without a second thought." It was a power move, one I was sure she understood and hated. Good. Let her hate me. It was cleaner that way.
But today, as my car pulled up to The Grind I decided to go withmy driver there because I only had a few minutes to spare, I felt a familiar, unwelcome flicker of anticipation. I stamped it out immediately.
The moment I walked in, I knew something was off. The usual rhythm was broken. She was behind the counter, but her movements were jerky, clumsy. She'd spilled something, and her co-worker, Ben, was giving her a wide berth. She looked… fractured.
My first, unwelcome instinct was to ask what was wrong. I crushed it.
I stepped up to the counter, my expression carefully blank. I could feel the tension rolling off her in waves.
"Double espresso," I said curtly, my voice even colder than usual to compensate for my unwanted concern.
I saw her jaw tighten. "Good morning to you too," she muttered, almost under her breath.
My eyes snapped to hers. "Excuse me?" No one spoke to me like that. No one.
She let out a short, tired breath. "Nothing."
A warning was necessary. She was clearly on edge, and I needed to reestablish the boundaries she kept trampling. "You should be careful with your tone," I said flatly. "Not everyone tolerates disrespect."
Her eyes, a stormy grey today, met mine with a shocking intensity. "I'm not everyone."
A challenge. My brow arched slightly, of its own accord. "Clearly."
The air between us crackled. I saw the storm building in her, and a dark, reckless part of me wanted to see it break.
"Do you ever say please," she shot back, her voice sharp, "or is that beneath billionaires too?"
A cheap shot. Beneath her, I thought. "I don't pay people to teach me manners," I replied, keeping my tone cool, a direct contrast to her heat.
I watched as she slammed the portafilter into the machine. The violent, unprofessional action should have angered me. Instead, it was fascinating. This was real. This was not an act.
"Right. Because God forbid you act human for once."
The entire café was watching now. I saw Mel, the manager, peek out of her office, her face pale. This was becoming a scene. A messy, public, unacceptable scene. My jaw tightened. "You're treading a very thin line, Miss Davis."
The use of her name was deliberate, a reminder of the power dynamic she seemed to have forgotten.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Gray," she said, her voice dripping with a sarcasm so sharp it could draw blood. "Would you like me to brew your coffee with tears next time, or just my crushed soul?"
The raw pain in that sentence hit me like a physical blow. Crushed soul. What did that mean? I pushed the question away, focusing on her. "Neither," I replied, my voice lowering, becoming dangerous even to my own ears. "Just competence would suffice."
That was the trigger.
She turned fully to face me, her small body trembling. Not with fear, I realized. With pure, undiluted rage.
"You know what? Maybe if you weren't so damn entitled, you'd realize we're not your servants. We're people."
The silence in the coffee shop was absolute. I could feel every pair of eyes on us. In that moment, she wasn't a barista and I wasn't a billionaire. We were just two people, and she had stripped away all the pretense, all the rules, with a few searingly honest sentences.
I didn't explode. I went still. The coldness that I wielded like a weapon wasn't an act now; it was a survival mechanism. If I let even a fraction of what I was feeling showthe shock, the intrigue, the unwelcome sting of her words the entire fortress of my control would crumble.
I looked past her, to where Mel was hovering, a terrified sparrow.
"Mel." My voice was ice.
Our manager appeared instantly, pale and trembling. "Yes, Mr. Gray?"
I kept my eyes locked on Aria, making sure she saw the consequences of her actions. "I suggest you get a handle on your employees. Some of them seem to have forgotten basic respect."
Mel stammered. "Y-yes, sir. I'm terribly sorry. It won't happen again."
I placed a hundred-dollar bill on the counter. A final, dismissive power play. "For the inconvenience."
Then I took the coffee I no longer wanted, turned, and walked out. I didn't look back. I could feel her gaze on my back like a brand.
The car door closed, sealing me in silence. I stared straight ahead, the paper cup burning my hand.
We're people.
Her words echoed in the quiet. Of course they were people. I knew that. But acknowledging that came with complications. Emotions. Inefficiencies. It was easier to see them as functions, not individuals with "crushed souls."
Crushed soul. The phrase repeated in my head, an annoying, broken record. What could possibly crush a spirit as fiery as hers? It had to be something monumental. Not just a bad day. Something… heavy.
The realization settled in my gut, cold and heavy. Her exhaustion, the shadows under her eyes, the tremor in her hands that was more profound than usual today… it wasn't just tiredness. It was grief. It was the same hollowed-out look I'd seen in the mirror after my father died, an exhaustion that sleep couldn't fix.
The thought was irritating. I didn't want to humanize her. I wanted to be angry at her for disrespecting me. But the anger wouldn't stick. It was being replaced by a gnawing, unwanted curiosity.
Back in my office, the pristine order felt like a mockery. Elaine approached with my schedule.
"The Singapore call has been moved to.."
"Not now,"I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended.
"Sir?"
"I said not now!"The words came out as a snap. I never snapped. I was always in control of my tone even when I'm angry. But today, I wasn't.
Elaine scurried away,and I felt a flash of guilt, which only angered me more.
I canceled my afternoon meetings. I couldn't focus. The numbers on the screen blurred together, replaced by the image of Aria's furious, heartbroken face. I tried to work on a acquisition proposal, but all I could think about was the way she'd looked at me not with fear, but with a disappointment that felt strangely personal.
Why did I care? She was a barista. A temporary fixture.
People are predictable. She was not.
I found myself staring out the window, my mind circling back to her. That was the most disturbing part. After that display, after her defiance and her raw, unfiltered anger, I didn't want to forget her.
I wanted to understand her. I needed to know what was causing that profound pain in her eyes. Was it a man? Debt? Family problems?
The urge to find out was overwhelming, illogical. It was an itch in my brain I couldn't scratch. I could have someone dig into her life in an hour. A simple command to Elaine. But something stopped me. It felt like cheating. Like I would be robbing myself of the… the game of figuring her out myself.
I scoffed at the thought. A game. Is that what this was?
She is a puzzle I so badly want to solve and get it right.
All I knew for certain was that I would be back at The Grind tomorrow. And the day after that. I would take my usual coffee at my usual table, and I would watch her. I would peel back her layers one by one, until I understood the mystery that was Aria Davis.
And once I understood her, I could finally file her away and forget about her.
At least, that's what I told myself.