Chapter 2: Coffee, Black, No Sugar

Pia

The brisk morning air did little to cool the fire in my cheeks. I strode down the cobblestone street, the click of my worn boots a sharp counterpoint to the distant hum of city traffic. I didn’t look back, but with every step, I felt him. An invisible tether stretched between the café and me, a phantom pressure that refused to dissipate. I was furious with myself. For letting a stranger get under my skin. For allowing a simple, intent stare to shatter the hard-won peace of my morning.

My mind replayed the scene in an endless loop. His eyes, the color of aged whiskey, and that slow, knowing smile. He had acted as if he knew me, as if our meeting was a foregone conclusion. The arrogance of it made my blood boil. Men like him were a poison I had long since learned to avoid. The kind who saw independent women not as equals, but as a challenge to be conquered. His gaze wasn’t admiration; it was a promise of a future I had no interest in sharing. A future where my life, so carefully constructed, would be overshadowed by his presence, his power, his possessiveness.

I rounded the corner, pushing the heavy wooden door of my studio open. The small space, filled with canvases, the smell of paint, and a chaos that was entirely my own, was a sanctuary. Here, I was in control. My brushes, my colors, my world. I dropped my bag onto an old stool, the leather giving a tired sigh. I needed to paint. I needed to pour this restless energy, this raw anger, into something solid and real.

Just as I pulled a canvas onto my easel, the doorbell buzzed, a sharp, unwelcome sound. I rarely got visitors. My few friends knew my schedule and respected my need for solitude. I glanced through the peephole and saw a young delivery boy in a uniform, holding a carrier with two coffee cups. My brow furrowed in confusion. I hadn’t ordered anything.

I opened the door, a wall of suspicion rising within me. “I think you have the wrong address,” I said, my voice clipped.

He smiled apologetically. “No, ma’am, this is for Pia Moretti. A gentleman called it in.” He held out the carrier. My eyes scanned the cups and a sick feeling twisted in my stomach. The sticker on the first cup read: Coffee, Black, No Sugar. My order. The one I had just had at the café, the one I hadn't told anyone about. The second sticker was even worse: Coffee, Cream, No Sugar. For the barista who knows all the secrets.

My breath caught. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a message. A declaration. He hadn't just followed me; he had gone back to the café, found out what I drank, and had it delivered to me. He had even paid the barista for his discretion. This wasn't charming. This was a violation. This was a man who didn't respect boundaries, a man who saw no line he couldn't cross.

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped thing. He didn’t just see me. He was watching me. He was paying attention. I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated rage. I took the cups, slammed the door shut, and leaned my back against it, my eyes squeezed shut. I was no longer in a cozy studio. I was in a cage. And he was the one who had just closed the lock.

...----------------...

Ash

I watched her walk away, her fiery red hair a beacon in the crowd. She was a storm of defiance and independence, and with every purposeful stride, she only solidified her place in my mind. She didn't look back. I expected nothing less. She wasn't the kind of woman who would.

My body was a coiled spring of controlled energy. I knew my presence had unsettled her. I saw it in the guarded set of her shoulders, the flash of fear mixed with defiance in her eyes. I could have approached her in the café. I could have introduced myself. But what good would that have done? She would have offered a sharp word, a cold shoulder, and left. She would have put up her walls, and I would have been just another man.

I didn't want to be just another man. I wanted to be the man who saw her, who understood her, and who cherished the very things that made her put up those walls. So, I took a step back. I watched her disappear around a corner, and then I went to the counter.

"The girl who was in the corner booth," I said, my voice low and authoritative. "What was she drinking?"

The young barista looked nervous, but a hundred-dollar bill placed on the counter had a way of loosening tongues. He glanced at the cup she’d left behind, and then at me. “Black coffee, no sugar,” he mumbled. “That’s what she gets every morning.”

I smiled. “And where does she go after?”

He hesitated, but another hundred-dollar bill was a powerful incentive. “She goes to her studio. Around the corner, a few blocks down. The one with the big wooden door.”

It was perfect. A woman who valued her independence and art, who had a routine, who trusted the world to leave her be. A simple, elegant life that I could now effortlessly slide into.

I pulled out my phone and placed a call. Within minutes, a delivery service was on its way. I gave them two orders: one for her, and one for the barista. It was a gesture. My first move. It was a way of saying, I see you, Pia Moretti, and I will spoil you rotten whether you like it or not. It was a bold move, a boundary crossed, but to me, it was an act of pure devotion.

My car was waiting for me. I slid into the back seat and instructed my driver to take me to a point where I could see her studio from a distance. I watched from across the street as the delivery boy arrived at her door. I saw her open it, her expression shifting from confusion to shock. And then, a perfect, furious rage that made me smile.

She slammed the door shut, and I could feel her fury from here. It was exactly the reaction I wanted. She was a woman who didn't let anyone in. And I had just proven that I was already inside her world. I had rattled her cage. Now, she would be thinking of me. She would be consumed by me.

I leaned back against the plush leather of my seat, the scent of the city a stark contrast to my expensive cologne. This was my world, a world of power and resources, and I was going to use every bit of it to show her that my obsession wasn't a curse. It was a gift. It was a promise that she would be cherished above all else.