The New York City rain wasn't romantic. It was freezing, gray, and smelled like wet trash.
Chloe stood on the sidewalk outside the St. Regis, her cheap wedding dress soaked to the bone. She looked like a drowned rat, a stark contrast to the glowing socialites entering the lobby for the wedding of the year.
The problem was, it was supposed to be her wedding.
"Ms. Lane? Please, step away from the entrance," a burly security guard said, his voice devoid of pity. "Mr. Vane has made it clear. You are not on the guest list."
"But I'm his fiancée!" Chloe's voice cracked. She reached into her clutch, pulling out the ring— a simple gold band. "Look! We were supposed to exchange vows at a private chapel an hour ago!"
The guard didn't even look at the ring. "Mr. Vane is inside with Miss Sterling. The real bride. Now, move, or I'll have to call the NYPD."
The heavy glass doors swung open, and for a split second, Chloe saw him. Damien Vane. He looked devastatingly handsome in his custom tuxedo, leaning in to whisper something into the ear of a woman dripping in diamonds.
He didn't even glance toward the rainy street. To him, Chloe didn't exist anymore. She was a deleted file. A temporary distraction from his billionaire lifestyle.
"Move it, lady!" a taxi honked loudly, splashing muddy water all over her white lace.
Chloe felt her heart shatter, the shards piercing her lungs. She turned and ran, blinded by tears and the blinding neon lights of Manhattan. She didn't see the black SUV turning the corner too fast.
CRUNCH.
Pain. Then, a weird, heavy silence.
***
"Hey, Chloe! Wake up! The 8 AM rush is starting and you're staring at the steam wand like it's a crystal ball!"
Chloe jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs.
She wasn't on the cold asphalt. She was standing behind the marble counter of The Daily Grind, a high-end coffee boutique in the Upper East Side. The air was thick with the scent of roasted Arabica and expensive perfume.
"What...?" Chloe gasped, looking down at her hands. They weren't bloody. They were holding a stainless steel milk pitcher.
"I said, move it!" Marcus, the head barista, nudged her shoulder. He looked younger, his annoying goatee not yet grown out. "The line is out the door. If we fall behind, the manager will kill us."
Chloe looked at the digital clock on the wall.
September 12, 2024.
Her breath hitched. This was the day.
In exactly ten minutes, Damien Vane would walk through that door for the first time. He would order a black Americano, pretend to forget his wallet, and she—the sweet, helpful idiot—would pay for it out of her own tip jar. That was how it started. That was the trap.
"Chloe? You okay? You look like you saw a ghost," Marcus muttered, already tamping a double shot.
"I'm fine," Chloe said, her voice surprisingly steady. She wiped a stray tear—a remnant of a life that hadn't happened yet—and tightened her apron strings. "Better than fine."
She looked at the tip jar. It was half-full. In the past, she had used that money to help a "struggling" billionaire.
Not today.
The bell above the door chimed. A gust of wind brought in the scent of rain and Santal 33—Damien's signature cologne.
He walked in, wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than Chloe's yearly rent. He looked around with that calculated, "bored" expression he used to charm women. Every girl in the shop turned their head.
Damien stepped up to the counter, flashing that perfect, practiced smirk.
"Double Americano. Black," he said, his voice like smooth bourbon. He reached into his pocket, then paused, feigning surprise. "Ah, damn. I think I left my wallet in my other jacket. My driver's already circled the block..."
He looked at Chloe, waiting for her to blush, to stammer, to say, "It's on me, don't worry about it!"
The old Chloe would have.
The new Chloe just leaned on the counter, her eyes cold and bored.
"That's a shame," she said, her voice flat. "There's a Chase bank two blocks down. Or, you can step out of the line so I can serve the customer who can pay. Next!"
Damien's smirk froze. He stared at her, genuinely confused. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Chloe said, already looking past him at the lady in the Chanel suit behind him. "Hi, welcome to The Daily Grind. What can I get for you, ma'am?"
Damien stood there, his face turning a delightful shade of red. For the first time in his life, someone had told him 'no'.
Chloe felt a spark of something hot and electric in her chest. It wasn't love. It was the first taste of power.