HIS WORLD, HER RULES

Alessandra’s POV The city never sleeps, and neither do I. I rush through the crowded streets, dodging people and honking cars. My heart pounds, my breath comes in short gasps, but I can’t stop. 7:45 AM. Late. Again. “Excuse me! Sorry!" I mumble, squeezing past a businessman in a crisp suit. My feet nearly trip over themselves, but I keep going. The moment I push open the café doors, the rich smell of coffee and warm pastries hits me. Normally, it’s comforting. Today, it just reminds me of my bad luck. Then comes the voice I’ve been dreading. “Alessa, this is the third time this week!" I freeze. Ms. Rina stands behind the counter, arms crossed, looking ready to fire me on the spot. “I know you have a lot going on, but I can’t keep making excuses for you," she says, her voice sharp. "If you can’t show up on time, I’ll have to find someone who can." My stomach twists. She doesn’t know about the sleepless nights spent studying for my journalism classes. She doesn’t know about my sick mother or my little brother who still needs school supplies I can barely afford. But none of that matters. Rent is due. “I’m really sorry, Ms. Rina. It won’t happen again," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my hands are shaking. She sighs. "Just get to work." I tie my apron around my waist and rush behind the register. The morning crowd is brutal. Orders come at me fast—lattes, cappuccinos, extra shots of espresso, oat milk this, sugar-free that. I move on autopilot, forcing a polite smile at each customer. The city doesn’t stop moving, and neither do I. •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• The Rude Billionaire At exactly 8:30 AM, the shop is packed. Office workers, college students, tired parents clutching their coffee like it’s their last hope. Just another day—until he walks in. Everything shifts. It’s way too easy to notice him. Not just because he’s tall and annoyingly good-looking, but because he walks in like he owns the place. Like the world bends for him, not the other way around. Expensive suit. Rolex watch. That effortless confidence only rich people seem to have. He’s the kind of man who’s never had to choose between paying rent or buying groceries. I instantly decide I don’t like him. He doesn’t look at the menu. He doesn’t even look at me. His eyes stay glued to his phone as he steps up to the counter. “Black coffee. No sugar," he says. No "hello." No "please." Not even a glance in my direction. I raise an eyebrow. Wow. The audacity. “Coming right up, sir," I say, my voice dripping with fake sweetness. That gets his attention. For the first time, he looks up. Dark brown eyes. Sharp. Focused. Like he’s actually seeing me now. His brows lift slightly, almost as if he’s surprised. Then, something else flashes across his face. Amusement. “You don’t seem like the type who enjoys customer service," he says, tilting his head. I let out a dry laugh as I grab a cup and start pouring his coffee. “And you don’t seem like the type who hears the word ‘no’ very often." A beat of silence. Then— A smirk. An actual smirk. “Fair enough," he says, taking his coffee. But he doesn’t leave right away. He lingers, watching me, as if trying to figure me out. Then, with an amused shake of his head, he finally walks off. I exhale, rolling my eyes. Rich men. Always acting like they own the world. I don’t care who he is. And I’ll probably never see him again. Right? Wrong. ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• The next morning, he’s back. Same time. Same expensive suit. Same arrogance. And, of course, the same order. "Black coffee. No sugar," he says, still glued to his phone. I grip the cup a little too tightly. "Good morning to you too, sir," I say, sarcasm heavy in my voice. He glances up, smirks, then—because he’s so generous—gives me a nod. A nod. Wow. How kind. I roll my eyes and make his coffee, setting it down with just enough force to make a point. The ceramic clinks against the counter, just shy of spilling. He chuckles. “Rough morning?" I fold my arms. “Do you actually care, or are you just making conversation?" “A little of both," he says, smirking again. “It’s entertaining." I scoff. “Glad my suffering is amusing to you." He takes his coffee, but—again—doesn’t leave right away. He watches me like I’m some kind of puzzle he’s trying to solve. I hate that my skin heats under his gaze. “What’s your name?" he asks suddenly. I hesitate. “Why do you care?" He grins. “Curious." I narrow my eyes. “Alessandra." For a moment, something flickers across his face. Recognition? Amusement? It’s gone too fast for me to tell. Then, as if deciding something, he nods and finally walks away. But this time, he doesn’t leave the café entirely. Instead, he takes a seat by the window. Sipping his coffee, eyes drifting back to me every so often. I pretend not to notice. But I do. And something tells me this isn’t the last time I’ll see him. •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••