Chapter 4 Cold Cashmere
The morning rush was a blur of steam and high-tension math. I moved with mechanical precision, my hands working the portafilter and the steam wand while my brain kept a running tally of the tip jar. By 9:30 AM, the suits had mostly cleared out, leaving the cafe smelling of expensive cologne and burnt sugar. I was reaching for a rag to wipe down the counter when the bell above the door didn't just jingle—it seemed to announce an intrusion.
The air in the room shifted. It was a subtle pressure change, the kind that happens right before a storm breaks.
Three guys walked in, and the small, cramped space of The Daily Grind suddenly felt like it was shrinking. They didn't just walk in; they occupied the room, their presence a loud, discordant note against the backdrop of our chipped mugs and mismatched chairs. They represented everything I lacked: the leisure to be out at mid-morning, the unearned wealth radiating from their tailored coats, and a level of arrogance that only comes from never having been told "no."
In the lead was the one I recognized from the news—Nathaniel Salvatore. Up close, he was a statue of ice. At 6’3”, he was physically imposing, his broad-shouldered, athletic build draped in charcoal cashmere that screamed quiet authority. His hair was dark, almost black, and impeccably styled, but it was his eyes that stopped my breath. They weren't just dark; they were a piercing, intense brown that held a cruel, possessive weight. He didn't look at the menu, and he certainly didn't look at me. To him, I was a fixture of the room, no different than the espresso machine.
Behind him stood the other two faces I’d seen on the glossy covers of the magazines left behind by our wealthier customers.
Gavin Hollis was the golden boy, a descendant of a legendary legal dynasty. He was moderately tall with a classic athletic build and golden blonde hair that looked like it had been kissed by a Mediterranean sun. His warm hazel eyes crinkled as he scanned the room with a charming, reckless energy, looking like he was searching for a party that hadn't started yet. He was dressed in high-end preppy designer gear that made our industrial-chic cafe look like a slum.
Then there was Theodore Beaumont. I remembered his face from a feature on "The New Elite"—the son of the city’s most highly regarded surgeons. He was leaner than the others, with a runner's toned physique and a more controlled, intellectual energy. His medium brown hair fell artfully across his forehead, and his striking light grey eyes were the only things in the room that seemed to actually see me. He wore a minimalist knit sweater that probably cost more than my rent, his brooding gaze highly observant and surprisingly reserved.
"Three double espressos. Black," Nathaniel said.
He didn't look up from his phone. His voice was smooth, deep, and utterly devoid of warmth. He didn't say please. He just stood there, a pillar of dark clothing and cold ambition, waiting for the world to cater to him.
I felt Eliza stiffen beside me, her hand gripping the handle of a milk pitcher until her knuckles turned white. I knew that look. She was a warrior, and she was ready to go to battle for my dignity. I stepped forward quickly, putting myself between her and the ice king.
"That'll be eighteen dollars," I said, my voice as flat as I could make it.
Nate didn't move. He didn't reach for a wallet. He just stayed focused on his screen, his thumb scrolling through what I assumed were stock options. After a beat of agonizing silence, Theodore stepped up, sliding a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter.
"Keep the change," Theodore said softly, his grey eyes lingering on mine with a flicker of what looked like a silent apology for his friend’s behavior.
The sight of the bill made my stomach turn. It was the same denomination as the one I’d used to buy Zoe’s milk, but coming from him, it felt like a brand. It felt like he was buying my silence for the way his friend was treating me.
"We don't need charity," I snapped, the words jumping out of my mouth before I could stop them. I reached into the register, pulled out the two singles, and slapped them onto the counter with more force than was strictly required. "We need customers who know how to read a 'Please Wait to be Seated' sign."
Gavin let out a low, amused whistle, his hazel eyes dancing. "Feisty. I like this place, Nate. It has... character."
Nathaniel finally looked up.
For the first time, the ice met the fire. Those intense, dark brown eyes swept over me with a clinical, soul-crushing boredom. He didn't look angry; he looked annoyed, the way one might be by a fly buzzing near their ear. He took in my worn hoodie, the faint stain on my sleeve from the 7:00 AM rush, and the way I was gripping the edge of the counter. His lip curled just a fraction of a millimeter. It was a look of pure, unadulterated disdain.
"The coffee," he said, his voice dropping an octave into a command. "Now."
He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned his back on me, heading toward the corner table—the one with the best view of the street—as if the conversation, and my existence, had already been erased.
I stood there for a heartbeat too long, the two dollars still sitting on the counter between me and Theodore. My heart was thudding against my ribs, a mixture of fury and a strange, cold fear. This wasn't just another rude customer. This was the man whose family name was currently swallowing companies whole on the news.
"Mila," Eliza whispered, her voice a warning.
I turned away from the trio and focused on the machine. I ground the beans, the roar of the grinder echoing the noise in my head. I tamped the grounds with enough pressure to crack the counter, my eyes burning. I watched the dark liquid pour into the small ceramic cups, the steam rising to dampen my hair. I wanted to spit in them. I wanted to throw the cups at his perfectly styled head.
Instead, I placed them on a tray with steady hands. I was the provider. I was the shield. And right now, the shield had to swallow its pride for the sake of eighteen dollars and a tip jar that was still too light.
"Here," I said, my voice tight as I approached their table.
I set the cups down one by one. Nathaniel didn't look up. He was already talking to Gavin about a merger in London, his voice cool and clinical, as if I were nothing more than the air he was breathing. I stepped back, my pulse drummed in my ears, the invisibility I had bragged about earlier now feeling like a cage.