The next day, Kierra sat outside the same small café, stirring her untouched coffee, when her phone vibrated on the table. She didn't need to look to know who it was—only three people still dared call her out here.
It was her assistant. Again.
With a groan, she answered. "What is it?"
"Kierra—Jeremy made a move on the LingTech deal. Without consulting anyone. It's a disaster."
She pinched the bridge of her nose. "He—what?"
"He lowballed them. Offended the execs. They're pulling out."
Of course he did. He thought negotiation was just smiling and dropping names.
"I told you to stall any decisions while I was gone," she said sharply.
"You're not the CEO, remember?" her assistant replied, hesitating. "Your father says Jeremy needs to learn by doing."
"Then let him watch the empire burn," she said coldly, ending the call.
When she looked up, Martin was leaning against the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. He'd just finished helping in the kitchen next door. Apparently, he did odd jobs around town to make ends meet.
"How's the empire doing?" he asked casually, though there was something sharper in his tone.
She frowned. Then she looked at Martin, surprised. "So, you also work here?"
Martin gave her a tiny nod.
"You heard that?"
"Didn't mean to eavesdrop. But you weren't exactly whispering," he casually replied.
Kierra sighed and motioned to the empty seat across from her. "Want to keep judging me, or are you just here to steal my coffee?"
He dropped into the chair, grinning. "Maybe both."
Despite the mood, she smiled.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the sleepy town move around them. Martin picked at the peeling label on his soda bottle. Finally, he said, "You know… I've been trying to figure you out."
"Good luck," she muttered.
"You talk like a soldier, walk like a CEO, but you sit here like someone who just wants to disappear."
She didn't answer.
Martin glanced sideways. "I get the reason why you're mad. You worked for something your whole life and got passed over. That sucks. I just… don't get why you need it so bad."
"I don't expect you to understand," she said. "You don't come from that world."
He nodded. "Exactly."
His voice was gentle, but it hit harder than it should've. He wasn't being mean. He was being honest. That made it worse. They kept running into each other—at the café, the bar, the beach. Eventually, it stopped feeling like coincidence.
Martin made her laugh without trying. She challenged his views, pushed his buttons. They were opposites in every way, and yet, somehow, it worked.
At least, for now.
But when Martin watched her walk away that night, hair blowing in the wind, heels clicking against the boardwalk, something inside him twisted.
'She's not for you,' he reminded himself.
'She belongs to another world. The kind with marble floors, not cracked tiles. She's just passing through.'
And he? He'd always been good at letting people go.
***
The guitar case sat in the corner of the room, untouched.
Martin stared at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. His inbox had two new messages. Both said the same thing, just with different levels of politeness:
"We're going in a different direction. It's not the right time for your sound."
He closed the email and leaned back against the wall of his cramped apartment. The ceiling had a crack above his bed. He'd been meaning to fix it for months, just like he'd been meaning to believe in himself again.
But how could he?
That demo—the one he recorded in one take, raw, real, him—was supposed to be his big break. A small label had shown interest. Then silence. Now rejection.
Reasons? Not commercially enough. Not catchy enough. Not… enough.
He grabbed his guitar, strummed once, then stopped. It felt pointless. The music that once saved him now sounded hollow.