Chapter 2 Mr. Killy
JASMINE
“I’m sorry, Jasmine… but we’re going to have to let you go.”
My boss’s deep voice echoed through the wide office, each word striking like a slow, deliberate blow. The sentence lingered in the air, heavy and final, as though the walls themselves had absorbed it and were now pressing it back into my chest.
Mr. Killy—fifty-seven, American, always impeccably put together—turned around slowly. The familiar black-and-white suit clung neatly to his tall frame, the same one he wore every single day as the owner of the restaurant. It made him look authoritative, untouchable, like a man who had everything figured out.
He was probably expecting anger. Maybe begging. Maybe shock.
He definitely wasn’t expecting tears.
His eyes widened the moment they settled on my face—on my tear-stained cheeks, my trembling lips, the way my lashes clung together from unshed sobs threatening to spill over. My vision blurred, the room swimming as I struggled to keep my composure.
What was I supposed to do, really?
He had just fired me from a job I’d been working for seven months. Seven months of long shifts, aching feet, forced smiles, and swallowed pride. Seven months of survival.
Sure, being a waitress at a five-star restaurant wasn’t exactly my dream job. It wasn’t glamorous, and it certainly wasn’t easy. But I loved it.
I loved the quiet sophistication of the place—the clink of crystal glasses, the low murmur of polite conversations, the subtle scent of expensive wine and carefully prepared dishes. I loved serving top-class customers who treated the restaurant like sacred ground, who spoke softly and tipped generously.
What I didn’t love were the bitchy ladies who strutted in like they owned the place. The ones who snapped their fingers instead of calling me by name, who looked me up and down as though I were beneath them. My fake smile only seemed to inflate their already enormous egos.
Still, every job had its ups and downs.
I didn’t hate it enough to want to lose it.
“I’m really sorry, Jasmine,” Mr. Killy apologized again, his voice softer now, strained. He walked toward me and placed his hands gently on my shoulders, careful, almost hesitant, as though I might shatter beneath his touch. He avoided my eyes, staring instead at the floor like a man burdened by guilt.
I stared at him through my tears, my chest tightening.
I sighed when he pulled me into a hug, the warmth of his arms wrapping around me. His embrace was firm but gentle, fatherly in a way that made something inside me ache. I tried my best not to melt into it, not to cling to him the way a child would.
But God, I wanted to.
“It’s okay, Mr. Killy,” I said softly, forcing a smile that felt foreign on my face. It was sweet, convincing enough—but genuine? Not even close. Then again, who was really checking?
I didn’t question his reasons. I didn’t ask why.
He had been there for me when I needed moral support, when the world felt like it was crumbling beneath my feet. He knew my situation better than anyone else in this building. If he was letting me go, it wasn’t because he wanted to.
I trusted him.
“I’ll pay you for this month, of course,” he added quickly, guilt flickering across his features.
“Anything I can do to help, I will.”
I pulled away from the hug, the same practiced smile still plastered on my face. His thumb brushed against my plum-olive cheek, rough and warm as he wiped away a stray tear that had escaped. I caught his wrist instinctively—not to stop him, but because I wasn’t ready for his warmth to leave me just yet.
For a brief moment, I allowed myself to exist there—in the safety of his concern.
“Go serve your last customer,” he said gently.
Smile lines creased his face as a sympathetic expression settled there. His concern made my stomach twist. He cared more about me than I had been cared for in a long time.
So he understood when I stepped back, letting go of his wrist, and walked out of his office without another word. I didn’t trust my voice not to break if I tried to speak again.
Mr. Killy cared more than my sperm donor ever did.
That’s exactly what I called him—a sperm donor. Nothing more. Nothing less. A beast wearing the title of father. And whatever punishment he was facing right now, he deserved every bit of it.
The restaurant floor greeted me with its usual elegance—dim golden lights, spotless marble tiles, soft instrumental music floating through the air. Everything looked the same.
But nothing felt the same.
My legs felt heavy as I walked, each step reminding me that this place would no longer be mine. No more memorizing regular customers’ orders. No more sneaking leftover desserts into the kitchen after closing. No more brief moments of pride when someone complimented my service.
I scanned the room and approached a random table near the corner.
A single customer sat there.
He was young—mid to late twenties, maybe. His posture was relaxed yet confident, shoulders squared as he leaned back slightly in his chair. A black Armani suit hugged his frame perfectly, tailored in a way that screamed money without needing to announce it. His watch alone probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Great.
Guess I’m serving yet another rich asshole.
Forgive me for the stereotype.
“Good evening, sir,” I began, my professional tone slipping easily into place. “Can I take your ord—”
The air hitched in my throat.
His head lifted slowly, and the moment our eyes met, my breath completely abandoned me.
Hazel.
Not plain or dull, but mesmerizing—flecked with gold and deep green, catching the light like something alive. His gaze locked onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle, as though he could see straight through me.
I stared back, my dark eyes widening slightly as my brain scrambled to function.
Something about him felt… familiar.
Dangerously so.
His features were sharp yet refined—strong jawline dusted with faint stubble, lips curved in what looked like the beginning of a smirk. His dark hair was neatly styled, though a few strands fell effortlessly over his forehead, giving him an unbothered, magnetic charm.
He didn’t look away.
Not immediately.
Instead, his eyes traveled over my face—slow, assessing—before softening just a fraction.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice smooth, deep, carrying a subtle accent I couldn’t quite place.
I blinked, realizing I had been staring far longer than socially acceptable.
“Yes—sorry,” I said quickly, clearing my throat.
“May I take your order?”
A corner of his lips lifted. “Take your time.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them made my pulse quicken.
I nodded, pulling out my notepad with hands that trembled ever so slightly. This wasn’t the time to fall apart. Not now. Not in front of him.
“Would you like to start with a drink?” I asked.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table, eyes never leaving mine. “What do you recommend?”
I hesitated, then answered automatically, listing one of the more expensive wines. He nodded approvingly.
“I’ll have that,” he said. “And whatever you think pairs best with it.”
I paused again, surprised.
“You trust my judgment?” I asked before I could stop myself.
His smile widened. “I do.”
Something about that simple statement sent a strange warmth spreading through my chest.
As I scribbled down his order, I felt it—the unmistakable sensation that this wasn’t just another customer.
This was the beginning of something.
And for the first time since stepping into Mr. Killy’s office, I forgot—just for a moment—that I had just lost everything.