I pause, eyeing a pair of tailored black trousers and my favourite fitted blazer, the one that makes me feel like I could walk into a courtroom and destroy someone’s life with a well-timed objection. Corporate bitch motherfucker mode activated.
I pull the blazer off the hanger and pair it with a silky black camisole, just enough edge without crossing into cocktail-hour territory. Sleek. Confident. Powerful.
I slip on the trousers and smooth the fabric down, then stand in front of the mirror, tilting my head as I take in the reflection.
Fierce. But polished.
Exactly the energy I need.
I reach for a pair of sharp-heeled black ankle boots and zip them up, the slight clink of the zipper sending a surge of confidence through me. The kind of outfit that makes it clear I’m not to be messed with.
I reach for my jewellery next, simple gold earrings, no necklace and pull my hair into a low, sleek ponytail. Clean. Powerful. Efficient.
Then it hits me, creeping into my mind without permission.
What if it is him?
My stomach twists, and my fingers grip the edge of the dresser. No. Stop it, Lila. You’re not dressing for him.
I scold myself silently, shaking off the thought. This isn’t about him. It never was. This is about protecting the cafe, my mum’s shop, and everything we’ve built.
The armour I’ve chosen isn’t for him. It’s for me.
I take one last look in the mirror and square my shoulders. Game on.
The cafe hums quietly around me, the sound of the espresso machine and soft chatter fading into the background as I take my place at the back table.
I stack my notes neatly, adjusting the corners. Everything in order.
For the past hour, I’ve been watching the clock, the numbers crawling toward 1 p.m. with agonising slowness. I’ve run through my arguments, rehearsed every possible response, prepared for every counterpoint he might throw at me. This is just another meeting. Another business conversation. Nothing more.
Yet my hands are a little too sweaty. My heartbeat a little tooloud in my ears.
I smooth my blazer and lean back in my chair, exuding the kind of confidence I don’t quite feel. Fake it until you make it, right?
The door swings open. I don’t look up.
Not yet.
But something shifts. The air. The energy. A presence.
When I finally glance up.
Fuck.
It’s him.
4
Lila
Fifteen years later, and he’s standing right in front of me, looking like a goddamn magazine cover. Taller, sharper, more composed than he ever was at seventeen.
His dark hair is perfectly styled, his tailored suit hugging broad shoulders, not the scrappy, reckless boy I once knew. This man is all muscle, sharp lines and control, his eyes scanning the cafe like he’s already decided how the next few minutes will play out.
He hasn’t seen me yet.
My pulse pounds. Every instinct tells me to bolt, but I’m frozen.
