The billionaire Who Broke me, Six Years too Late

This cereal tastes wrong. I stare down at my bowl, watching brown liquid swirl around soggy cornflakes, and realize with horror that I've just poured my morning coffee into it instead of milk. "Perfect." I drop the spoon. "Just perfect." My phone screen glares at me from the counter at 8:47 AM. Shit. Of course, I'm late. Grabbing my maroon cardigan, I shove my arms through and don't bother with breakfast. There's no time, and honestly? My culinary experiment just killed my appetite. The New York morning hits me the second I step outside. The air smells like rain and warm bread from the bakery down the street. I tug the cardigan tighter, fumbling with buttons that refuse to cooperate—giving up, I start walking. The buttons can wait. My sneakers slap against concrete as I dodge puddles with the dedication of someone determined not to drown before 9 AM. I didn't have time to do anything with my hair, so I left it loose—big mistake. It keeps smacking me in the face. So annoying Yeah... I'm definitely giving "I woke up like this." And not in the "I woke up looking like a goddess" way. Should've looked for my contacts last night. Maybe I wouldn't feel like such a dork. But no. Because of my lazy ass, here I am—glasses sliding down my nose, vision slightly crooked because the frames bent last week and I still haven't fixed them. Pretty sure I look like a crazy person. "Fantastic," I mutter. "Love that for me." By the time I reach the café, I'm cold, very late, and dangerously close to declaring this day a lost cause. The bell announces my arrival with a cheerful jingle that feels like mockery. Inside, the air shifts—warm, dense with caramel, espresso, and slightly burnt muffins. Rugby’s cafe—this place has my heart. Jenna and Miles are already drowning in chaos. The espresso machine hisses like an angry snake. The line stretches toward the door, full of people who clearly woke up ready to ruin someone's day. Weaving through to the back, I shove my bag into my locker, twist my hair into a tighter bun, and tie my apron with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times. Because I have. Obviously. I rush back to the front. Hopefully, my manager didn't notice I came in late. Miles looks up from the register when he sees me. His eyes do a quick scan—crooked glasses, frazzled hair, coffee stain I didn't quite manage to hide. He doesn't say anything, but his shoulders relax slightly, like he's been watching the door, waiting. A silent nod. I mouth "sorry." He shakes his head once. "Don't worry about it." That's Miles. He'll never admit it, but I think he's a big softie—always looking out for Jenna and me. Speaking of Jenna— "AMARA!" Her voice cuts through the noise. "THE ESPRESSO MACHINE IS POSSESSED!" "It's literally just making espresso." "It's angry." "You're dramatic." "Hey!" she shoots back. Ignoring her, I paste on my customer service smile—the one that says I'm totally fine, everything's great, please don't yell at me. — When the rush finally slows, I feel like I've survived a war. My bun's falling apart, half my hair is loose. My apron looks like it lost a fight with powdered sugar. There's definitely dried latte foam on my cheek. And I was mentally and physically drained. Leaning against the counter, trying to catch my breath, Miles appears beside me with a glass of ice water. I blink at him. "I didn't ask for this." "I know." He sets it down. "You look like you need it." Staring at the glass, then at him, I say, "Thanks." He just shrugs, heading back to the register. Jenna hands me a chocolate muffin. "Here, eat. Don't die." Miles grunts his agreement from the register. "I'm sensing a theme here," I mutter, but take the muffin anyway. "That's because you look half-dead," Jenna says cheerfully. "Please retrieve your soul before someone orders a frappuccino," Miles adds, deadpan. I groan. "I hate you both." "No, you don't," Jenna sing-songs. She's right. I don't. Miles and Jenna are the closest things I have to family in this city. Miles, with his quiet way of noticing when I'm struggling. Jenna, with her relentless optimism and ability to make me laugh even when I want to cry. I don't know what I'd do without them. Draining half the water, I head out to wipe down tables. That's when I notice him. A man is standing outside under the awning, perfectly still despite the rain. His coat looks expensive—the kind that doesn't belong in this neighborhood. He doesn't seem to care that it's getting soaked. Dark hair is styled with effortless perfection. His posture is intent, like he's watching something. Waiting. Something about him seems familiar. I blink and look away. Stop staring at random strangers, Amara. That's how you end up on a true crime podcast. Behind the counter, someone drops a bagel. It lands in a puddle with a wet slap. "Seriously?" I mutter. Jenna rolls her eyes. "Classic." "What is this? A lifetime subscription to disaster?" She snickers— The bell above the door jingles. Something shifts. Not the café—me. My ears start ringing. Jenna's laugh sounds distant. The espresso machine fades. Even the chattering customers blur into white noise. The world narrows to just the door. I turn. My soul leaves my body. Standing there— The same man from outside. Tall. Dark hair slicked back just enough to look careless. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes the color of steel—cold, calculating, impossibly piercing. Damian St. James. Six years of nightmares packed into a human body. My high school bully. The person who made me dread every hallway, every lunch period, every group project. The person I spent six years trying to forget. He's different now. Taller. Broader. More refined, like someone took the cruel boy I remembered and carved him into something sharper. He stops just inside the doorway. His eyes lock onto mine. My breath stalls. For a split second, something flickers across his face. Then it's gone. Replaced by a smirk. That smirk. The one that haunted me through puberty. "Amara Bennett." His voice is smooth, low, wrapped in a British accent that makes my name sound like both a caress and a threat. "It's been a while.” My knees wobble. Stepping back, I bump into the counter. A cup topples, spilling coffee in a slow wave across the surface. Of course. "What..." I swallow hard. "What are you doing here?" He takes a step forward. His boots click softly against tile. He stops a foot away. That scent hits me—the same cologne from high school. Sharp and clean, the scent I couldn't escape in the hallways. It rolls through the café, drowning out coffee and burnt muffins, and I hate that my brain catalogs it as familiar. Up close, it's worse. The faint shadow along his jaw. The sharp line of his cheekbones. Details I thought I'd forgotten but apparently filed away like evidence. Suddenly, everything rushes back. The way he used to lean against lockers with that same casual arrogance. The way his voice could slice through a crowded hallway. The way he'd look at me like I was something amusing he'd found on the bottom of his shoe. My fingers find my necklace. Old habit I do anytime I'm nervous. I force my hand down, but not before his eyes track the movement. He notices everything. He always did. "We need to talk." His voice is steady, certain. My throat closes. Because the last time Damian St. James wanted to talk to me, I ended up crying in a bathroom stall for two hours. And now he's here. In my café. Acting like the past six years didn't happen. Acting like he didn't ruin me. I open my mouth to tell him to leave, to get out, to go back to whatever hole he crawled out of— But before I can speak, he leans in slightly, voice dropping lower. "And Amara?" His eyes hold mine. "Don't even think about running."