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There’s something rotten about this man. I feel it in my bones.

“Even if you had a million dollars,” I snap, “I wouldn’t go anywhere with you.” My voice trembles. “So are you going to let go, or do I have to scream?”

His sneer deepens, and his grip tightens. Then his other hand—still holding the cash—slides up my thigh, reaching for my ass.

I jerk back and try to kick him in the shin, but miss.

“Hey, listen up, you bitch. Don’t be a?—”

A sharp scrape of a chair against the floor cut through the air like a gunshot.

The man in the charcoal suit—the one who had been watching me earlier—is now standing behind my assailant. His jaw is tight, eyes narrowed as they flick between me and the drunk.

Up close, he’s even more imposing. Tall, broad-shouldered—the kind of build that comes from hours at the gym.

“You have three seconds to decide if that hand’s worth keeping.”

The words are spoken so softly I almost miss them. But something in his voice makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

The drunk hears it, too. His grip slackens, uncertainty cutting through his false bravado. I yank my hand free and step back, rubbing at the red marks he left behind.

Then the drunk turns and sees who’s standing behind him. He pales.

He tries to stand—fumbling, swaying.

And when the stranger steps forward, the drunk doesn’t just back down.

He flinches like a man who’s seen this type before.

The kind that doesn’t fight fair.

The kind that doesn’t lose.

“Leave.”

Just one word, but it lands with such quiet authority that my body obeys before my mind catches up. I step back, my pulse racing.

The tension crackles like a storm about to break—volatile, electric, and impossible to ignore. For a moment, I think the drunk might argue or even try to fight, but he tries to walk away.

When he does, the stranger grabs his wrist and twists it upward. I swear I hear the crack as I walk backward, watching the scene unfold. The drunk trembles and drops back into his seat. Just then, the stranger leans down and whispers something I can’t hear.

Whatever he says drains the last bit of color from the drunk’s face. He scrambles up again, nearly knocking over the chair and tripping over himself as he bolts out of the café.

I remain frozen, my wrist still throbbing where the drunk grabbed me. The stranger watches him go, his expression blank.

Before I can say anything, the manager appears beside me.

“Everything okay here, Chiara?” he asks, looking between me and the stranger with concern.

“Yes, it’s fine,” I say quickly, remembering to respond to my sister’s name.

“Take five if you need it,” he says, surprisingly soft for a guy who usually barks orders.

I nod and retreat into the kitchen, my legs shaky beneath me. Through the round window in the door, I watch the stranger return to his table.

He doesn’t sit. Instead, he slips on a black overcoat that somehow makes him look even more mysterious.

I exhale, my pulse still racing.

And then—I see him reach into his pocket, pull out a crisp bill, and set it on the drunken man’s table. The other guy forgot to leave a tip.

Not charity. A statement.

Like he’s stamping the moment as his—owning it the way you mark territory. Or send a message.

As he turns to leave, his gaze sweeps the café one last time—then lands on me. He knows I’m watching. The corner of his mouth lifts, just slightly—not quite a smile, but a signal. A recognition.

Then he’s gone, the bell over the door tinkling softly as it closes behind him.

I push through the kitchen door and head to the table where the drunk had been sitting. The bill the stranger left is folded neatly on the table. I pick it up—and nearly drop it when I see the denomination—$100.

I should feel relieved that it didn’t spiral out of control. Grateful, even—for the perfectly timed interruption that pulled the plug before it all went sideways. But instead, I’m left with a bitter mix of emotions: unease, curiosity, and something else—something I can’t quite name.

I hate needing anyone. Especially a man like him.

But the truth is, the moment he stood up, my chest loosened, like I’d been holding my breath for hours.

And that feeling—relief? safety?—makes me feel weak. Exposed.

Who was he?

Why did he help me?

What did he say to scare off that asshole?

The rest of my shift passes in a blur. By closing time, my feet throb and my brain feels foggy, but I can’t stop replaying the moment in my head.

As I walk home through the quiet streets, I can’t shake the feeling that something significant happened today. That the encounter with the stranger wasn’t just coincidence, but something deliberate.

And despite everything—the stress of covering for Chiara, the drunk, the never-ending pressure of bills—I catch myself hoping I’ll see him again.

It’s a dangerous thought.

Men like him—powerful, wealthy, intense—don’t mix with women like me.

Not without a reason.

And not without it costing us something.

Still, as I climb the stairs to our apartment, his dark eyes and that almost-smile stay with me.

I tell myself I’m being silly. That the connection I felt was one-sided and meaningless.

But deep down, I know better.

Men like him don’t just disappear.

They come back. And when they do… they change everything.

I don’t know what he is. But something tells me I’ll find out—whether I want to or not.