Chapter 2
Seraphina stood at the café's glass entrance the next morning, her breath fogging the surface. She adjusted her apron, tucking her loose braid over one shoulder. Her hands were dry from the dish soap, and her cheeks bore the pale tint of fatigue, but her posture remained straight — back like a dancer, eyes like a queen.
The door chimed. The bell above jingled the same tune it always did.
She was ready for regulars — the office interns with complex coffee orders and the delivery boys who flirted half-heartedly — but not for him.
Lucien Vale stepped in with the gravity of a thunderstorm wrapped in a charcoal suit.
The café lights reflected off the rain-damp strands of his black hair, and his cold grey eyes scanned the room like a hawk sizing up prey. He didn't look like a man who drank lattes. He looked like the man who owned the company that sold them.
He approached the counter, and Seraphina raised her brows without recognition. "Morning. What can I get you?"
Lucien didn't answer immediately. He looked at her — really looked — as though he were flipping through every version of her that had existed in headlines, charity galas, and glossy magazine pages.
She didn't flinch. She was used to stares.
"What do you recommend?" he asked finally, his voice deep and smooth like aged bourbon.
She didn't smile. "Depends. Are you trying to stay awake or feel alive?"
The corners of his lips twitched. She still had teeth, he noted. Grace hidden in scraps. Fire beneath frost.
"Alive," he replied.
She nodded, moving with practiced efficiency to steam milk and pour a double shot of espresso. "In that case… Seraphina's Special."
He raised a brow. "Named after yourself?"
"Not anymore," she said, sliding the cup across.
He took a sip — and blinked. It was perfect.
"Did you study coffee?"
"No," she said simply. "Just… started over."
Lucien leaned slightly on the counter. "You don't seem like someone who breaks easily."
"You don't seem like someone who small-talks."
He chuckled, low and real. "Lucien," he said, offering his name like a hand extended over a battlefield.
Seraphina didn't offer hers in return. She just nodded once.
He walked away with his coffee. And for a brief moment, Seraphina stared at the foggy imprint of his fingertips left on the cup sleeve — feeling something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Not love.
Not even curiosity.
But the whisper of something dangerous.
And upstairs, from the private lounge across the street, Lucien Vale watched her through the glass again.
"She's still got it," he said to no one.Then, a pause.
"But what is she planning to do with it now?"