FOREVER HIS

Sophia's POV

If the screaming had been any louder, I might have thrown the mop at someone.

It was not even eight in the morning, and the bakery was already in chaos. A woman in a fur coat stood at the counter, stabbing the air with her finger as if she were accusing Beatrice of murder.

“This croissant is full of bad luck!” she declared.

Beatrice blinked at her, the polite customer service smile frozen on her face. “Ma’am, it’s just a croissant.”

“It is not just bread,” the woman insisted. “You can feel it when you bite into it. A heaviness. Bad luck.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop the laugh threatening to escape. My mop was in my hands, but I had not moved in thirty seconds, too entertained by the scene unfolding.

“Ma’am, I assure you,” Beatrice said, her voice patient but strained, “all our pastries are baked fresh this morning. No heaviness. No bad luck.”

“You think I am imagining this?” The woman’s voice went very loud. “Do you know who my husband is?”

I glanced at the clock, then at Beatrice. Her eyes screamed for help, but there was nothing I could do without laughing in the woman’s face.

Eventually, after more muttering about “energies” and “bad luck,” the woman stormed out, leaving the doorbell jangling violently behind her.

Beatrice exhaled like she had just run a marathon. “That’s it,” she said, pressing a hand dramatically to her chest. “If one more customer with mental problem keeps coming, I am quitting.”

I snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

We shared a quick smile, and I was still shaking my head when the bell above the door chimed again.

Two men walked in.

They were nothing like the sleep eyed regulars who usually shuffled in for their morning coffee. The first man was tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a suit so sharp it looked like it belonged in a magazine. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jaw clean shaven, and his presence was heavy. Like the air adjusted itself to make space for him.

The second man was just as well dressed, but he carried himself differently, smoother, more relaxed, like he was the one who calmed the storms the first man caused.

Beatrice leaned toward me and whispered, “Yours.”

I frowned. “What?”

“You serve them. I am still recovering from Madam Croissant Energy.”

I rolled my eyes but grabbed my notepad. Walking over to their table, I put on my best professional smile. “Good morning, sirs. What can I get you?”

The first man did not answer. His eyes fixed on me, dark and assessing, and for a moment I forgot what I was supposed to say next.

The second man finally broke the silence. “One black Americano. No sugar. One latte. Two chocolate cupcakes.”

“Right away,” I said, forcing myself to step back.

I made their order quickly, trying to ignore the sensation of being watched. My hands were steady as I set the drinks on the tray, but the moment I started walking toward them again, my pulse sped up. It was that first man’s gaze. It was not casual. It was deliberate, like he was peeling back layers I did not even know I had.

I reached the table, leaned forward to set the tray down and my sleeve caught on the edge of the cup.

The Americano tipped.

Hot coffee spilled in a dark wave across the first man’s pristine white shirt.

The sound of the cup hitting the saucer was drowned out by the sharp scrape of his chair as he stood. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”

My stomach plummeted. “I am so sorry,” I blurted, grabbing tissues from my apron. My hands shook as I reached toward him.

He caught my wrist midair, his grip firm but not painful, and pushed it away. “Do not touch me.” His voice was low but sharp enough to cut.

“It was an accident,” I said quickly, feeling heat rush to my face.

“Oh, so your accident makes this fine?” His eyes locked on mine, dark and cold. “Do you even know how much this shirt costs? You could work here for three years and still not afford it.”

I swallowed hard. “Then send me the bill.”

His jaw tightened, his lip curling. “No. I want your manager. Now.”

Rodney appeared, wiping his hands on a cloth, his polite smile firmly in place. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“Fire her,” the man said without hesitation.

Rodney blinked. “Sir, I am sure this was”

“I said fire her,” the man repeated, his voice quiet but carrying the kind of weight that made people obey.

The second man leaned back in his chair, his tone smooth. “It would be better for everyone if you just did what he says.”

Rodney’s eyes flicked to me. He looked torn, and that scared me more than the man’s anger. Rodney had defended me against rude customers before. He had never looked afraid.

“I already said I am sorry,” I said, my voice sharper now. “It was an accident. You do not have to ruin my life over it.”

The first man’s eyes narrowed. He took a step closer, and even though there was still space between us, I felt the shadow of his presence. “You think this is just about coffee?” His tone was almost soft now, and that was somehow worse.

A chill ran down my spine.

He glanced at Rodney again. “You have five minutes to decide.”

And then he sat back down, as if the conversation was over for him.

I stood frozen, my heart pounding, the smell of coffee sharp in the air between us. I did not know who he was, but I could feel it in my bones. This was not just about a spilled drink.

He was sent to ruin my life.