DALTON
The penthouse, usually a sanctuary of silence and order, felt like a cage. There was no office to consume, no meetings to dominate, no numbers to crush into submission. Just the quiet, and the unwelcome memory of a man who was more of a blueprint for success than a father.
Today marks ten years since his death.
I was bored. Restless. An emotion I despised because it felt like a lack of control.
Driving usually helped. The precise mechanics of a powerful engine, the focused attention the road demanded it was a different kind of control. I took the Aston Martin, a car so low and aggressive it felt like a protest against the mundane stillness of the day. I didn't have a destination in mind, but my hands seemed to know the way, guiding the car through the city gates and toward the manicured hills of the cemetery.
I parked a distance from the main section, needing the walk. The air was cool and still, the only sound the crunch of my dress shoes on the gravel path. It was then I heard it the raw, unmistakable sound of someone crying.
I glanced over. A woman was kneeling between two headstones, her shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs. There was something in the slope of her neck, the dark hair… My steps slowed. It was familiar.
I found myself gravitating towards her.
I moved closer, using a large, ornate mausoleum as a shield. And there she was.
Aria.
My barista. The one who had looked at me with such fiery defiance just two days ago was now shattered, folded in on herself with a grief so profound it seemed to suck the air from the space around her.
What the fuck was she doing here?
A part of me, the part that valued privacy above all, knew I should turn and leave. This was not my scene. This was not for my eyes. But my feet were rooted to the spot. This was a piece of the Aria Davis puzzle, a crucial one, and I was a man who needed all the data.
My father the business i came here for was long forgotten.
I kept my back to her, pretending to examine the mausoleum, giving her the illusion of solitude. I couldn't make out her words they were a broken, muffled stream poured into the grass. But I didn't need to hear them. Her posture said everything. This was a loss that was still fresh, still crippling.
After a few minutes, I heard the soft rustle of her standing, the sound of her footsteps retreating. I waited until the silence settled back in before I turned.
She was gone.
Driven by an impulse I didn't care to name, I walked to the spot where she had knelt. The grass was a bit damp, and I realized with a jolt that it was from her tears. I looked down at the two headstones.
Marion Davis. Beloved Wife and Mother.
Olivia Davis. Cherished Daughter and Twin Sister. Forever Loved.
The air left my lungs.
Twin sister.
Her mum.
The world tilted on its axis. Olivia Davis. So Aria had a twin. A mirror, a other half. And a mother. Both gone. The dates on the stones were from about a decade ago. A car accident? An illness? It didn't matter. The result was the same.
She hadn't just lost one person. She had lost two pillars of her world in one go.
A cold understanding washed over me, so sharp it was almost a physical pain. The exhaustion in her eyes wasn't just from working two jobs. The "crushed soul" she'd thrown at me wasn't just dramatic flair. It was the truth. She was walking through life carrying a ghost on each shoulder.
I thought of my own father's death. Martin Gray had been a cold, demanding man, but his absence had left a hole in my life, a void I'd filled with control and ice. I couldn't imagine the devastation of losing a mother and a twin sister. It would be like losing a part of your own soul.
No wonder she is always sad.
The thought was simple, clear, and it completely destroyed my previous narrative of her. She wasn't just an insolent employee. She was a survivor, drowning in a sea of grief and responsibility, and I had been throwing rocks at her from the safety of my head.
And then, the name Davis echoed in my mind, this time with a sharp, new clarity.
John Davis. As Elaine had told me.
Now, the timeline clicked into place with terrifying precision. My father died. Around the same time, John Davis lost his wife and one of his daughters. My mother, in her unparalleled cruelty, fired him for grieving. He disappeared to raise his one remaining child.
Aria. I'm guessing.
The familiar name I'd brushed off as a coincidence was no coincidence at all. Aria Davis was John's daughter. My John's daughter. It was the same man. The John who had been kind to me was her father. The man my family discarded was the reason his daughter was now shattering apart in a cemetery.
A cold, sharp clarity washed over me. This wasn't just intrigue anymore. Nothing made sense.
John Davis was paid well. Very well. I knew because I'd once secretly reviewed the household payroll as a teenager, curious why the driver seemed more put-together than my own father. He should have left that job with a significant safety net. So why did his daughter look like she was one missed paycheck away from collapsing? Why was she working a barista job, her clothes worn, her eyes permanently shadowed with exhaustion?
Where was John? Was he even alive? If he was, why wasn't he protecting her? If he wasn't… what had happened?
The questions stacked up in my mind, one after another, something wasn't adding up .This was no longer about a stubborn barista. It was about an unsolved puzzle. My family had been part of their lives, and I needed to understand how it ended.
I strode back to my car, the peaceful cemetery now feeling like a crime scene with unanswered questions. Sliding into the driver's seat of my Aston Martin, I pulled out my phone and dialed my private investigator.
"Mr. Gray," he answered.
"I have a job. Two subjects.. Aria Davis and her father, John Davis," I said, my voice cool and level. "I want a full background check. Everything. Their current financial status. Her employment history I want to know every job she's held in the last two years. John's current whereabouts and status. Medical records. I want to know why he isn't providing for her, and why she looks like she's carrying the weight of the world. Find the gap."
"Understood, sir. I'll have a preliminary report for you within 24 hours."
Tomorrow is Monday. Good.
I ended the call.
The investigation wasn't out of kindness. It was necessary. Aria Davis was a problem I couldn't fix with fear or cash, because I didn't know all the details yet. Her defiance and stubbornness was one thing. But this… this quiet proof of a fight that didn't add up was something else entirely.
And I had to control every factor I could. The truth hit like ice water. The weariness in her eyes, the bite in her words they weren't attitude. They were the shield of someone who'd been fighting for years.
My thoughts were racing. I needed proof. I needed the whole story.
Step one, confirmation that she is indeed John Davis my old driver's daughter.
What are you hiding Aria? And why I'm I so interested in your business?
One thing i know is that, there's no going back now. I have to know.