“Accountability,” I reply. “Over a dozen businesses are backing this. We want real answers, not a PR script and we want to hear them from the person who actually calls the shots.”
“There’s no need to escalate this further.” His voice is tight now, his patience wearing thin. “I’ve already told you, I havethe authority to address your concerns.”
“Authority, sure,” I say, sarcasm dripping from every word. “But we both know you’re not the one who makes the real decisions. So how about we skip the middleman and go straight to the top? Who’s the actual head of this project?”
There’s a pause.
“Ms Ng…” His voice softens, almost patronising. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I disagree.” I push off the counter and pace the cafe. “If you won’t set it up, I’ll find out who they are myself. Trust me, it won’t take long.”
His silence stretches.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” he finally says.
“Nope,” I reply, popping the ‘p’ with extra satisfaction.
He sighs heavily. “Fine. Expect a call soon.”
The line goes dead. I set the phone down and take a deep breath, my heart still racing.
***
“Lila, table four is asking for more oat milk!”
I balance two trays of cappuccinos in my arms, nodding toward Jess. The cafe is packed, students with laptops, couples on coffee dates, and our regulars lounging in the corner as if they’ve got nowhere else to be.
I thrive on mornings like this, where I’m too busy to think.
“Coming right up,” I call back, weaving through tables with practiced ease.
It’s past lunchtime when the crowd finally starts to thin, and I get my first real break of the day. I head to the counter and collapse on the stool behind the register, grabbing my phone from under a stack of invoices.
Twenty-two unread emails. Three missed calls. One voicemail. The cafe noise hums around me, cups clinking, chairs scraping, but it all fades into the background when I see the unknown number.
I play the voicemail.
I take a deep breath and bring the phone to my ear.
“Ms Ng, this is Ben Ashcroft.”
The name slams into me like a freight train. My breath catches.
It can’t be.
Not him.
My stomach does a weird little flip at the sound of his voice. It’s deep, polished, and calm in a way that demands attention.
“You’ve been persistent about speaking with someone at the top,” he continues. “I thought it was time we connected directly. Call me back at your earliest convenience.”
I blink at the phone, playing the message again just to be sure I heard it right. Ben Ashcroft.
No. Absolutely not. That Ben Ashcroft wouldn’t be calling me in a suit and tie, sounding like he’s got the weight of a multinational corporation resting on his shoulders. He wouldn’t be leaving smooth, formal voicemails and calling meMs Nglike we’ve never met before.He wouldn’t even recognise the name, Ms Ng. That’s what I go by now.
I snort.Definitely not him.
It’s just a coincidence. A completely different Ben Ashcroft.
