Chapter Two
Brian told himself he wouldn't go back to the café.
He said it while riding the elevator down from his office the next morning. He repeated it during a tense call with his legal team. He even said it aloud while passing the corner where his driver usually waited. And yet, twenty minutes later, he was standing across the street from the same modest café, hands in his coat pockets, watching people move in and out like it was the most normal place in the world.
This was ridiculous.
He crossed anyway.
The bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped inside. The café was busier than the day before—morning rush, laptops open, quiet conversations blending with the hum of the espresso machine. And there she was again, behind the counter, hair slightly messier, expression unchanged.
She noticed him immediately.
Her eyes flicked over him, assessing, then she turned back to the register without comment.
"Let me guess," she said as he approached. "Black coffee."
Brian smiled. "You remembered."
She shrugged. "You're not complicated."
That should have been an insult. He took it as a challenge.
"Rough morning?" he asked casually.
She handed the cup to the next customer. "All mornings are rough. Some just pretend better."
Brian laughed softly. "You're very honest."
"I don't have time not to be."
He studied her face more closely now. There was something guarded there—not cold, just careful. Like someone who had learned that being observant was safer than being open.
"Brian," he said again, as if reintroducing himself might change something.
She paused, then sighed. "Amara."
The name settled in his chest in a way he didn't expect.
"Nice to meet you properly," he said.
She nodded once. "Same."
He paid for his coffee and stepped aside, but instead of leaving, he lingered near the window. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for—a conversation, a reaction, a sign—but minutes passed with nothing. She moved efficiently, speaking to customers, laughing briefly with a coworker, never once looking his way again.
It bothered him.
By the time the rush died down, Brian had finished his coffee and still hadn't left.
Amara finally noticed. "You planning on renting that spot?"
He smiled. "Just thinking."
"Dangerous hobby."
"Only if you avoid it," he replied.
She studied him for a moment, then crossed her arms. "What do you want, Brian?"
The directness caught him off guard. He considered lying—he was good at that—but something in her expression made him stop.
"I don't know," he admitted. "That's kind of the problem."
She nodded slowly, as if that answer made sense. "Most people who walk in here don't."
There was a beat of silence.
"Look," she continued, lowering her voice, "I don't mind conversation. But if you're here because you think I'm impressed, you're wasting your time."
"I don't think that," he said quickly. "Actually… that's why I came back."
She raised an eyebrow. "You came back because I wasn't impressed?"
"Yes."
A corner of her mouth twitched, despite herself. "That's new."
"So am I," he said lightly.
She laughed once, short and surprised, then shook her head. "You're interesting, Brian. I'll give you that. But interesting doesn't mean important."
He felt that one land.
"I'm not trying to be important," he said quietly. "Just… real."
Amara looked at him for a long moment, really looked this time, as if weighing something unseen. Then she turned back to the counter.
"Come back when you're ready to order something other than attention," she said.
Brian watched her for a second longer, then turned and left, heart pounding in a way no boardroom ever caused.
Outside, the city moved as usual, loud and impatient. But Brian stood still, a strange realization settling in his chest.
For the first time, someone had set a boundary with him—and instead of walking away, he wanted to earn the right to cross it.
And that terrified him.