In the quiet cradle of Starry Hill, tucked away from the world's rush, sits Sweet Indulgence—my café, my sanctuary. Built with raw longing and stubborn hope, it became my way of starting over.
I'm Ann, its keeper. Every creak in the floorboards still echoes the uncertainty of the girl who first opened its doors. I came here after everything fell apart—after betrayal turned my world inside out. My best friend. My boyfriend. I left the wreckage behind, chasing peace and finding it in cinnamon rolls and chamomile tea.
Sunlight slices through the tall windows, bathing the display case in a soft, golden glow. Pastries gleam like little treasures—buttery croissants, glossy éclairs, and lavender macarons. Sarah, my pastry chef, moves with practised ease, her fingers dusted in flour as she arranges lemon tarts that never stay on the shelves for long. The air hums with warmth: vanilla, sugar, fresh coffee. A scent that feels like safety.
I was wiping down the espresso machine when my thoughts slipped to opening day—the nerves, the hope, the way I needed this place to mean something more than just survival. But lately, a faint unease had begun to ripple beneath the comfort, a subtle discord in the café's familiar hum, as if a shadow lingered just beyond the edge of sight.
"Ann!" Sarah's voice broke the spell. "We're down to six lemon tarts. They're vanishing faster than I can bake 'em."
I laughed, too quickly. "A good problem to have," I said, though my pulse beat a little too fast.
At the counter, I spotted Heather—one of our cherished regulars—with her usual warm smile. Her presence grounded me. "Good morning, dear," she said. "The usual—blueberry scone and chamomile, please."
Beside her, Sam offered a nod. "And a cappuccino for me," he added with a wink.
"Of course." I turned to start their order. My hands moved automatically as I prepared their drinks. Normally, the rhythm soothed me. But today, an odd tension clung to the air. Then the bell over the door chimed, and a sharp gust of autumn wind swept in—along with someone unfamiliar.
I looked up—and froze.
He stood framed in the doorway, tall and composed, carved from marble. Shoulders squared, jaw sharp, eyes the colour of rich espresso, they swept the room with subtle precision, less admiring gaze than strategic assessment. When his found mine, a volatile current surged through me, slicing through my composure. My fingers stilled. An unsettling familiarity settled over me, a memory I couldn't grasp, a resonance without a source.
He approached the counter with unhurried grace. "Good afternoon," he said, his voice low and smooth, laced with an accent I couldn't quite place. "I'll have an espresso... and a dessert recommendation, if you don't mind."
His tone was polite, but there was a weight behind it—like he wasn't just here for coffee. My pulse spikes. I lift my head to meet his intense stare.
"How about the midnight velvet torte?" I suggested keeping my tone casual. "It's a dark chocolate cake with cream and raspberry coulis."
A faint, knowing smile brushes his lips. "Perfect," he murmurs.
As I assembled his order, my thoughts raced. Why did he feel so familiar? He seemed utterly out of place amid the café's gentle laughter and clinking cups, yet he fit into some hidden corner of my history. I placed a shot of espresso and the torte before him. "I hope it lives up to your expectations."
"I'm sure it will," he replied, his gaze lingering a moment too long.
He sipped, then ran a fork through the coulis, watching it trail down the plate like blood in water. His gaze lingered on mine—slow, deliberate, charged. Heather leaned close, her smile radiant. "Welcome to Sweet Indulgence, Mr. Tyler."
He inclined his head, a brief, courteous nod. 'Thank you.'
From the kitchen doorway, Sarah's voice, a soft murmur barely audible over the clinking cups, cut through the air. 'Isn't that Tyler Sinclair?' Her words landed like a dropped glass.
Sinclair. I knew that name. Whispers of power, influence—someone important. Someone I was certain I'd never met. And yet... why did his presence stir something long-buried?
He savoured the torte in contemplative silence, then his phone buzzed. He checked it, frowned once, and slipped cash onto the table without waiting for change. At the door, he paused, turning back. His eyes found mine with a look that trembled between promise and warning.
"Thanks for the recommendation," he says, voice low but charged.
Then he stepped out, the doorbell chiming behind him. All that lingered was the scent of espresso—and the icy thrill of something just beginning.
I arrived at the café earlier than usual the next morning, hoping the ritual would quiet the strange storm brewing inside me. Tyler Sinclair. The name repeated like a forgotten song.
Sarah swept in with a grin. "Let's try something new today. Cardamom-orange brioche?"
"Let's do it," I said, grateful for her energy. We worked together, and the smell of citrus and warm dough filled the air.
Just as the crowd settled and I was busy finalising a tempting menu, when the familiar chime of the café door caught my attention. Tyler walked in, his presence as commanding as the first time.
"It seems you're making something new today," he said with a chuckle, his dark eyes glinting with curiosity.
We're testing a new recipe," I replied, my voice steady despite the quick beat of my heart.
"Interesting. Can I have one?"
"Sure," I said, a playful challenge in my tone. "I'll expect your honest opinion."
"You have my word." He smirked, paid at the counter, and took a seat near the window.
As the café buzzed around us, I brought his order to the table, setting down the plate with care. "Hopefully, it tastes good," I said, retreating before he could respond.
He took a bite, thoughtful. "Citrusy and bold," he murmured, his gaze lifting to mine. "Like it knows exactly what it wants to be." A strange shiver traced my spine. The way he looked at me—it felt disconcertingly personal. He studied me, his dark eyes searching. "You've built something truly special here, Ann."
"Thanks," I managed, my voice carefully neutral.
"You have a gift," he continued, his voice dropping, almost a whisper. "More than you realize."
For a second, the air left my lungs. An echo, a profound sadness, resonated in his tone. It was as if he recognized me from a life I couldn't recall.
As the door swung shut behind him, I realised I had been holding my breath. Tyler Sinclair wasn't just a customer. He was a puzzle—and I wasn't sure I wanted to solve him.