If there was one thing Amara knew for certain, it was this: every billionaire was a liar in an expensive suit.
The thought burned in her chest as she slammed a chipped porcelain cup onto the counter of the café, ignoring the sharp clink that made her coworker, Grace, flinch. Steam swirled from the machine, the scent of roasted coffee beans filling the small space, but the smell did nothing to calm her temper. A man in a tailored navy blazer leaned lazily against the counter, his wrist heavy with a gleaming gold watch that could have paid her rent for the next five years. He swirled his drink with exaggerated distaste before sneering at her.
"You call this coffee? I should have you fired. Do you even know who I am?"
Amara's lips curled into the sharpest smile she could manage, the kind of smile that held no warmth. She was used to men like him. Men who strutted into her café expecting her to bow, men who thought money excused arrogance. Her patience, never abundant to begin with, snapped.
"No," she said coolly, wiping her hands on her apron, "and I don't care. This is a café, not your father's mansion. If you want sparkling water imported from France and coffee beans kissed by angels, try the Hilton down the street."
Gasps fluttered through the room. The morning crowd, mostly workers stopping for a cup before heading to the office, went quiet. The man's face darkened.
"You will regret speaking to me that way," he hissed.
"Not as much as I regret having to serve you," she shot back, her voice steady, though her pulse hammered in her throat.
Grace tugged at her sleeve, whispering, "Amara, maybe tone it down."
Amara pulled away, her jaw tight. "If he wants respect, he can try being human first."
The man muttered a curse, tossed a few crumpled bills on the counter like they were an insult, and stormed out, leaving his untouched cup behind. The silence that followed lasted only a heartbeat before a smattering of applause broke out from one of the tables near the window.
"About time someone told off these overfed clowns," muttered a middle-aged mechanic, grinning into his cup.
Amara tried to calm her breathing, but her hands still shook. She hated the way encounters like that lingered, clawing under her skin. Every entitled word had dragged her back to memories she wanted to bury. Her father's broken face when he lost his company, the hollow sound of her mother's cries in the night, the endless debts that swallowed their home. All because of one billionaire's greedy business deal. Amara had been seventeen then, and she had promised herself she would never forget.
She returned to the counter, her expression softening as she caught Grace's worried eyes. Grace was younger by two years and had a gentler heart. She never liked confrontation. Amara gave her a half-smile.
"Relax. He'll forget about me in an hour. People like him always do."
Grace nodded, though her frown lingered.
The bell over the door chimed, and another customer entered. Amara, still wound tight from the confrontation, did not look up immediately. She wiped the counter, forcing her mind back into routine. When she finally glanced up, her gaze landed on a man who looked entirely out of place.
He wore a plain gray T-shirt and jeans that had seen better days. His sneakers were scuffed, his hair slightly mussed, and he carried himself with an air that was neither arrogant nor timid, just… watchful. His eyes caught hers for a brief moment before flicking away, but there was something in that look that made her chest tighten unexpectedly.
He walked to the counter, his steps measured. "Coffee. Black. Please." His voice was deep, calm, without the impatient snap she had grown used to from morning customers.
Amara nodded, turning to prepare the drink, but she found herself studying him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, yet he moved like someone used to blending in rather than commanding attention. There was no watch gleaming on his wrist, no designer logo stretched across his chest, no air of superiority. If anything, he looked… ordinary. Refreshingly ordinary.
"Rough morning?" he asked suddenly.
Amara blinked, startled. "Why?"
He tilted his head slightly, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. "You looked like you were ready to strangle the last guy who came in here."
Her lips twitched despite herself. "If I had, it would have been the highlight of my week."
He chuckled, a low sound that seemed to warm the space around him. "Can't blame you. He looked like the kind of guy who complains about the temperature of water."
That earned him a genuine laugh from her, and she hated how easily he pulled it out of her. Handing him the steaming cup, she shook her head. "You don't even know him."
"I don't need to," he said, his smile lingering as he took the cup. "I've met enough people like him to know."
Amara studied him carefully. His words held a weight that did not match his simple appearance. For a moment she wondered what kind of life he had lived to say it with such certainty. She pushed the thought aside. Customers were customers. She did not need to dissect them.
Still, as he carried his cup to a corner table, she found her eyes following him.
Grace nudged her lightly. "He's cute."
Amara rolled her eyes, though her cheeks betrayed her with warmth. "Cute men are dangerous. I don't have time for dangerous."
Grace grinned knowingly but said nothing.
The man sat quietly, sipping his coffee, his gaze occasionally wandering to the window where the city bustled outside. There was a stillness about him, as though he was comfortable in silence, and that unsettled her. Most customers fidgeted, scrolled through their phones, or talked too loudly. He simply… existed. Calm and steady, like he belonged nowhere and everywhere at once.
Amara shook herself. She had more important things to think about than some stranger. Rent was due, the café's supplier had raised prices again, and she still had not figured out how to pay Grace's overdue wages. Life was heavy enough without letting her mind wander to mysterious men with quiet eyes.
But the universe had other plans.
As the morning crowd thinned, the man returned to the counter. He placed his empty cup down and met her gaze directly.
"That was good coffee," he said softly.
She arched a brow. "You sound surprised."
"Not surprised," he corrected. "Grateful. Sometimes the simplest things are the best."
His sincerity disarmed her, and for a second she forgot how to respond. People rarely thanked her for coffee. They paid, they drank, they left. This man's gratitude lingered in the air like something tangible.
"You're… welcome," she managed.
He gave a slight nod before leaving, the bell chiming behind him.
Amara stood rooted to the spot, staring at the door long after he had gone. Something about him tugged at her in a way she did not want to name. She shook her head fiercely. He was just a man who ordered black coffee. That was all.
Yet deep inside, a voice whispered that nothing about him was ordinary. And she hated herself for wanting to see him again.
What she did not know was that Adrian Cole had left the café with his own storm brewing inside him. He had spent years drowning in a world of greed and wealth, searching for something real. In Amara's defiance, her honesty, her laughter, he had glimpsed it. The irony was cruel. She despised everything he represented, and he could not reveal his truth without losing her forever.
And so the game began.