Inside the Fallen Angel Cafe, the air was thick enough to choke on. It smelled of burnt coffee beans, damp wool, and the distinct, sour odor of impending failure.
Scarlett sat in the furthest corner booth, her spine rigid against the cracked leather seat. Outside, the London rain battered against the glass, blurring the world into a grey, hopeless smear. But inside, her world was about to shatter.
"No boners, no paycheck, Scarlett."
Uncle Danny, the greasy editor of Midnight Pleasure Magazine, didn't just speak the words; he spat them. He slammed her manuscript onto the sticky table with a force that made the cutlery rattle.
The sound cracked through the quiet cafe like a whip.
"Technically, look at this." Danny's sausage-like finger jabbed at the paper, leaving a faint grease smudge on her pristine ink work. "The lines are exquisite. The shading on this Gothic Duke's jawline? Museum quality. You went to art school, we get it."
Scarlett didn't move. She wore her white trench coat buttoned all the way to her chin, a fragile shield against the world. Under the table, her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
"But we don't pay you for art school perfection, S. Sunflower," Danny sneered, leaning in. His breath smelled of stale tobacco and onions. "We pay for heat. This? This is distilled water. It's beautiful, clean, and utterly useless."
"I... I followed the prompt," Scarlett whispered, her voice steady but brittle. "You asked for a brooding noble."
"I asked for a man who looks like he wants to rip a woman's dress off!" Danny's voice rose, drawing the annoyed and curious eyes of other patrons. "You're giving me mannequins in fancy costumes. Where is the sweat? Where is the desperation? Where is the filth?"
Scarlett bit her lip, tasting iron. She wanted to grab her portfolio and run. She wanted to scream that her art was worth more than this cheap smut. But she couldn't.
Rent. The word flashed in her mind like a red neon sign. Two weeks overdue. Mrs. Lany threatened to change the locks tonight.
She swallowed her pride. It tasted bitter.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Danny," she forced out. "I'll... I'll revise it tonight. I can make it darker."
Danny didn't answer immediately. He picked up his mug of lukewarm coffee, swirling the dark liquid. His beady eyes narrowed, scanning her face, then drifting lower to the modest neckline of her coat. He undressed her with a gaze that felt like slimy hands crawling over her skin.
"Revise it?" He let out a wheezing, mocking laugh. "That's your problem, isn't it? You're trying to draw something you've never felt."
The cafe went silent.
"You're a virgin, aren't you?"
The accusation hung in the air, humiliatingly accurate. Scarlett felt the blood rush to her face, heating her cheeks.
"My personal life is none of your business," she snapped, her defense weak.
"It is my business when it costs me money!" Danny's face twisted into a mask of cruel amusement. He slowly tilted his mug. "You draw like a nun. And nuns don't sell magazines."
Splash.
He didn't throw it. He poured it. Deliberately.
The lukewarm, murky brown liquid cascaded out of the mug like venom. It hit the manuscript first. Scarlett watched in horror as the coffee soaked into the Gothic Duke she had spent three hours shading. The ink bled. The crisp lines dissolved into a muddy mess.
"No!" She reached out instinctively, but it was too late.
The liquid didn't stop at the paper. It ran off the table, splashing onto her lap. It seeped instantly into the fabric of her white coat, staining it an ugly brown.
A warm, sticky sensation slithered through the layers of her clothes, touching the skin of her waist. It felt like a violation.
"If you can't draw a mess, get out of the industry," Danny said, slamming the empty mug down.
Scarlett froze. Tears pricked the corners of her violet eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She was shaking—not from cold, but from a rage she had no outlet for.
Danny stood up, buttoning his jacket over his protruding gut. He leaned down one last time, his voice dropping to a nauseating whisper that made her stomach turn.
"Or..." He paused, his gaze dropping to the wet stain on her lap. "If you really want to keep this job, maybe you need a practical lesson. Let me show you what a 'real battle' looks like in the restroom. That's the only way your brush will ever get wet enough."
He winked, a grotesque twitch of his eyelid, and tossed a crumpled five-pound note onto the ruined art.
"Think about it, S. Sunflower."