NORA'S POV
The coffee machine is screaming at me again.
I slap the side of it—hard—and it gurgles back to life. Steam hisses in my face, burning hot, but I don't flinch. I stopped flinching at things that hurt a long time ago.
"Nora! Table six needs their order!" My boss Marcus yells from behind the counter, his face already red even though it's only two in the afternoon.
I grab the tray of lattes—four of them, all complicated orders from girls who probably spent more on their manicures than I make in a week. My feet ache in these cheap sneakers. I've been standing for six hours straight, and I still have four more to go before I can drag myself to my next shift at the library.
Three jobs. That's what it takes to stay at Frost Haven University when you're the charity case scholarship kid.
I weave between tables, keeping my head down. That's rule number one: don't make eye contact with the rich kids. They look through you anyway, like you're part of the furniture. Sometimes that's better than being seen.
But I see him.
I always see him.
Ash Crane sits in the back corner booth—the same one he claims every Tuesday at exactly 2:30 PM. His black hair falls over his eyes as he sketches in that worn leather notebook. He's beautiful in a way that makes my chest hurt, all sharp cheekbones and quiet intensity. Paint stains dot his fingers, and he's wearing a faded band t-shirt with holes in the sleeves.
He's nothing like his twin brother.
Evan Crane is everything Ash isn't—loud, popular, cruel. Captain of the hockey team. King of campus. He makes sure I know I don't belong here, "accidentally" spilling drinks on me, laughing when I trip carrying textbooks, asking if my clothes came from a dumpster.
They're identical twins, but I can tell them apart now. Ash is quiet storms and hidden sadness. Evan is sharp smiles and casual destruction.
I've loved Ash from a distance for two years. He doesn't know I exist.
"Stop staring at the Crane boy and move!" Marcus snaps.
My face burns. I deliver the lattes, collect the tip—two dollars on a forty-dollar order, because rich kids are generous like that—and return to the counter.
My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I sneak a glance.
Maya: EMERGENCY! The Christmas gala is tonight! You're coming!
Me: Can't afford it. Have to work.
Maya: It's MANDATORY for scholarship students. Dean's orders. Plus there's FREE FOOD. When's the last time you ate a real meal?
She's not wrong. I had ramen for breakfast. Yesterday, I skipped lunch entirely.
Maya: I found you a dress. Red. Gorgeous. You're wearing it. Pick you up at 7.
I want to argue, but my stomach growls loud enough that the customer next to me looks over. The gala means free food. It also means watching people like Evan Crane treat the world like their personal playground while I serve them drinks.
But Maya is my only real friend here. She's on scholarship too—financial aid, not full ride like me. She understands what it's like to be invisible.
Me: Fine. But I'm leaving early.
The afternoon crawls by. I make seventy-three drinks. I clean up a spilled hot chocolate some kid threw on the floor. I smile at people who don't smile back.
Ash never looks up from his sketching.
At 5:30 PM, Marcus calls me into the back office. My stomach drops. The last time he called me back here, he cut my hours because "business was slow." Business is never slow at the campus coffee shop.
He's sitting at his messy desk, looking uncomfortable.
"Nora, sit down."
I don't. "What's wrong?"
He slides an envelope across the desk—my paycheck. "There's been some... budget adjustments."
I grab the envelope and rip it open. My hands freeze.
The check says $287.
It should say $487.
"This is wrong." My voice comes out weird and high. "I worked forty hours this week. Minimum wage is—"
"We had to take out additional fees," Marcus interrupts, not meeting my eyes. "Uniform cleaning, equipment usage, register shortage—"
"I don't have a uniform! And there was no register shortage!" My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. "You can't just steal my money!"
"Watch your tone." His voice goes cold. "You're lucky to have this job. There's a hundred other students who would take it."
The threat hangs in the air like smoke.
I need this job. I need every single dollar. My grandmother's medication costs $400 a month. My dorm fees are due in two weeks. I'm already behind on my phone bill.
Two hundred dollars might as well be two thousand. It might as well be the whole world.
"Marcus, please." I hate how my voice cracks. "I need that money. My grandmother—"
"Not my problem." He stands up, already dismissing me. "Be grateful you're getting paid at all. Now get back to work. Your shift isn't over."
I walk out of that office in a daze. The coffee shop sounds come back—hissing machines, chattering voices, Christmas music playing too loud. Everything feels far away and too close at the same time.
Two hundred dollars short.
I lean against the wall in the back hallway, trying to breathe. Trying not to cry. I can't cry here. I can't show weakness. That's rule number two: never let them see you break.
My phone buzzes again.
Maya: On my way! Tonight's gonna be magical! I can feel it! ✨
Magical. Right.
I don't believe in magic. I believe in working three jobs and still being two hundred dollars short. I believe in medicine I can't afford and dreams I can't reach. I believe in invisible girls who serve coffee to people who will never see them.
I push off the wall and tie my apron tighter. Thirty minutes left in my shift. Then I have to go home, put on a borrowed dress, and pretend I belong at a party full of people who have never worried about money in their entire lives.
I return to the counter and start making the next order. My hands shake, but they always shake now.
That's when I see it.
Ash Crane is standing at the counter, waiting. Right in front of me. For the first time in two years, he's looking directly at me.
His ice-blue eyes are intense, searching, like he's trying to solve a puzzle written on my face.
"Hi," he says, his voice quiet and rough. "I'm—"
"I know who you are," I interrupt, trying to sound normal even though my heart just exploded.
He blinks, surprised. Then he smiles—actually smiles—and it transforms his whole face. "Right. Small campus." He glances down at his worn notebook, then back up at me. "I wanted to ask you something."
Oh God. Ash Crane is talking to me. Actually talking. The universe must be playing a joke.
"What?" I manage to say.
He opens his mouth. Hesitates. His fingers drum nervously on the counter, and I see paint stains—blue and gold, still wet.
"Are you going to the Christmas gala tonight?"
My brain short-circuits. "I... yeah. Why?"
His smile gets a little wider, a little more real. "Good. That's... good."
He turns to leave, then stops and looks back over his shoulder. Those blue eyes lock onto mine again, and I feel it all the way down to my bones.
"Save me a dance?" he asks.
Before I can answer—before I can even process what's happening—he walks out of the coffee shop.
I stand there, frozen, while the coffee machine screams and customers wait and my entire world tilts sideways.
Ash Crane just asked me to dance with him.
Ash Crane, who I've loved silently for two years, who never looked at me once, just asked me to save him a dance.
I touch my face, wondering if I'm dreaming. Wondering if the stress finally broke my brain.
My phone buzzes.
Unknown Number: Don't go to the gala tonight. This is a warning. Stay away from the Crane twins, or you'll regret it.
The message sends ice down my spine.
I read it again. Then again.
Who sent this? How did they get my number? And why would someone warn me to stay away from—
The coffee machine dies completely, smoking and sparking.
Marcus storms over. "What did you do?!"
But I'm not looking at him. I'm staring at my phone, at the threatening message, at the unknown number.
Behind the counter, hidden under the register, I see something that wasn't there before.
A small black envelope with my name written in red ink.
Inside, there's a single card with two words:
CHOOSE WISELY.