Hostile Affection

Chapter 3: No Sugar, Just Storms

Nicco’s POV

Not even fifteen minutes had passed when our orders arrived.

The girl — Hana, her nameplate said — came over balancing a tray like she’d done it a thousand times. “One Caramel Macchiato for Ma’am Venice, one Iced Mocha for Sir Franco, one Café Latte for Sir Jacob, one Vanilla Latte for Sir Yasser, and lastly, one Iced Americano for Sir Nicco. The croissant and cinnamon roll will follow shortly.”

She smiled, polished but empty, the kind of smile that didn’t reach the eyes.

We thanked her out of habit. Everyone reached for their drinks like they’d been waiting their whole lives for them.

Yasser was first to react, predictably dramatic. “This Vanilla Latte is superb!” He said it like he’d just tasted the elixir of life.

Jacob leaned back, eyes closing for a second. “This Café Latte is exactly what I needed.”

Venice was already hugging her cup like it was a pet. “I’m coming back here every day for this.”

Even Franco caved. He nudged me with his elbow. “The hype was real. What are you waiting for?”

I stared at my cup. Cold glass, beads of water sliding down. Looked right. Smelled right. But I’ve been burned before — more times than I can count. Iced Americano should be simple, straightforward, impossible to ruin. Should be.

I took a sip.

And instantly regretted it.

Sweet. Cloying. Like someone had dumped syrup into it until it drowned. Nothing of the sharp edge that makes an Americano what it is.

My stomach turned. I grabbed a napkin and spit discreetly into it. Classy, I know, but better than forcing it down.

“What the hell?” Yasser’s voice carried, concern laced in it.

“Something wrong?” Jacob asked, leaning forward.

Venice, fearless as ever, yanked the cup from me and took a sip before I could stop her. Her face said everything.

“Oh no.” She set it down like it was poison.

“What is it?” Franco asked.

I didn’t answer. Not yet. I raised a hand instead, catching Hana’s eye. She came over again, this time without the smile.

“I’m sorry,” I said evenly, holding the cup toward her. “But this isn’t what I ordered.”

She checked the slip. “Sir, you ordered an Iced Americano. That’s exactly what I served.”

Her tone had an edge.

“Yes, I did order an Iced Americano,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But I specifically asked for no sugar.”

She blinked, then gave this scoffing little laugh. “Okay, well… sorry. No need to be so dramatic.”

And that was it. The snap. Not loud, not explosive — just clean. The quiet line between patience and principle.

“Is this really how you talk to customers?” My voice stayed low, controlled. “Because I won’t tolerate this. I’d like to speak with the owner.”

She rolled her eyes. Rolled. Her. Eyes. Then sighed like I was ruining her day. “Fine. I’ll get them.” She stomped off.

“Wow,” Yasser muttered. “That was unbelievably rude.”

“She looked like she was about to chew him out for asking politely,” Venice added, shaking her head.

I leaned back, jaw tight. Not out of anger. Anger was easy, messy, wasteful. This wasn’t about that. This was about respect. About the fact that asking for coffee without sugar wasn’t a crime.

I didn’t need five-star service. Just basic decency.

Apparently, that was too much to ask.

***

Troye’s POV

The vet’s waiting room felt smaller the longer I sat in it. My knee wouldn’t stop bouncing, heel tapping against the tiled floor in a nervous rhythm I couldn’t control. Scarlet’s carrier rested beside me on the chair, but she wasn’t inside anymore—the doctors had taken her an hour ago, and every second since had been its own kind of torture.

Yellow. That was the color. The vomit had stained the blanket in her corner last night, and my stomach had twisted the second I saw it. Too close. Too familiar. My sister’s cat had vomited that same yellow weeks before her liver failed. I couldn’t shake the memory no matter how many times I told myself Scarlet was strong, that she was different.

When the clinic door finally opened and the vet stepped out, I was on my feet before he even looked in my direction. My chest tightened as though my ribs were bracing for impact.

“Doc,” I blurted out, sharper than I intended. My throat felt raw. “How’s Scarlet? Is she going to be okay?”

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t read his face—and then he smiled. Calm, reassuring, like he’d seen this kind of panic before.

“No need to worry, sir,” he said. “We ran several tests and found no signs of serious illness. Scarlet’s vomiting was caused by overeating—nothing more. She’s in good health.”

The words sank in slowly, like warm water easing into frozen veins. My shoulders dropped without me realizing it, and a long breath escaped me, shaky but freeing.

“That’s… really good to hear,” I managed. My voice cracked at the end, betraying the storm I’d been holding back. “Thank you, Doc.”

He nodded and moved to his desk. “I’ll give you a prescription for a digestive aid. It’ll help her process her food better next time.”

I nodded back, but my eyes had already found the carrier where Scarlet would be returned. She was fine. She was okay. I kept repeating it in my head like a mantra, grounding myself in those two words.

Then my phone buzzed.

Kiana.

I answered on instinct. “Hello?”

Her voice trembled, strained to the point of breaking. “Troye… we have a problem at the café.”

My chest tightened again, this time in a completely different way. “What happened? What kind of problem?”

“Just—please come now.” The line cut before I could say another word.

I stared at the phone, the afterimage of her name still glowing on the screen, her voice echoing in my ears. Kiana never sounded like that. Never. She was steel in human form—sharp, steady, unshakable. If she was on the verge of tears, then whatever had happened at the café wasn’t small.

The vet returned with the prescription, but my mind had already left the room. I thanked him automatically, grabbed the slip of paper, and hurried to the counter. A minute later, Scarlet was back in her carrier, blinking up at me as if nothing had happened.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered, more to myself than to her. “We’ll be okay.”

The evening sky was bruising into twilight as I stepped into the parking lot. The air smelled faintly of rain, heavy and electric. I slid the carrier onto the passenger seat, started the engine, and pulled onto the road.

No music. No distractions. Just the hum of the car and the steady pounding in my chest.

Something was waiting at the café—something that had shaken Kiana enough to let her voice break. I gripped the wheel tighter, pressing harder on the gas.

Scarlet was safe. But the café… the café was another story.

***

Nicco’s POV

The moment the two owners walked over, I straightened in my seat. My patience was already hanging by a thread, but I kept my arms loosely crossed, trying not to let the irritation leak into my face.

One of them—a guy who introduced himself as Kent—spoke first. His voice was calm, but I could hear the strain beneath it.

“We’re terribly sorry for what happened, sir. Please rest assured, this kind of behavior won’t happen again.”

I studied him for a moment. I’ve heard plenty of apologies before; most of them sound rehearsed. This one wasn’t fake, but it was heavy, like he was holding something back.

Beside him, the woman—Kiana—turned toward the staff member who had caused this whole mess. Hana. The same girl who’d rolled her eyes at me earlier like I was being dramatic for asking for the drink I ordered.

“Come on, Hana. Just apologize. Please.” Kiana’s voice was soft, pleading.

And there it was—the defiance I already expected. Hana crossed her arms and jutted her chin like she had something to prove.

“Why should I, Ma’am Kiana? Aren’t you supposed to have my back? That guy was rude, too, you know.”

My brows shot up. Rude? I hadn’t raised my voice, hadn’t insulted her, hadn’t done anything except point out a mistake. What’s so rude about expecting the basics—respect, professionalism? I bit my tongue. No point sparring with someone who was already convinced she was the victim.

Kent tried again, more desperate this time. “Hana, please.”

My gaze drifted to Kiana, and what I saw gave me pause. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, her whole body looked deflated, fragile, like this one moment was enough to break her. I hated how familiar that expression looked—the face of someone watching their hard work unravel in seconds.

I let out a slow breath. It would’ve been so easy to lash out, to cut Hana down with the kind of sharp words people always expect from me. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I wanted decency, nothing more.

“I’m not asking for much,” I said evenly, my voice steady, controlled. “Just an apology. That’s all.”

I glanced at Kent—he looked like he was begging her silently. For a moment, I thought maybe she’d cave. But then Hana let out a scoff.

“You know what? I quit!”

Her words smacked the room like a slap. My jaw tightened, though I kept my expression neutral.

She unclipped her nameplate with shaking fingers, her voice sharp with entitlement. “I graduated Summa c*m Laude, and this is how I get treated? Over a cup of coffee? No thanks!”

The apron and nameplate hit the floor with a loud clang, echoing through the café like punctuation to her tantrum.

“Keep your café!” she snapped before storming out, the slam of the door vibrating in my chest.

The silence afterward was heavy. Kent dragged a hand down his face like the weight of the world had just landed on his shoulders. Kiana broke, her body folding in on itself as she tried to hold back sobs and failed.

I sat there, watching, feeling that dull ache in my chest I didn’t want to admit to. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I hadn’t come here to humiliate anyone. I just wanted what I asked for—a coffee without sugar, served with respect.

And yet, one girl’s arrogance had turned this place into a battlefield.

Unbelievable.

“I think that’s enough,” I muttered under my breath as I stood.

“Let’s go, guys.”

My friends didn’t argue. We all gathered our things in silence.

As I walked toward the door, I made the mistake of glancing back. Kiana was doubled over now, sobbing into her hands. That sight twisted something in me I didn’t want to acknowledge. Guilt, maybe. Or sympathy I didn’t owe them.

I turned away before it could sink deeper.

I didn’t regret standing up for myself. I couldn’t. But walking out of that café, a quiet heaviness followed me all the same.

***

Troye’s POV

Thirty minutes later, I finally reached the café. The moment I stepped through the doors, the air shifted. The hum of conversation dimmed into a hush, but the whispers still snaked through the room, lingering like smoke that refused to clear.

"This might be the beginning of their downfall."

"Nicco Samaniego won’t let this slide."

Wait—Nicco? Who’s that?

"Such a shame… the place is so nice. But that crew girl? Completely out of line."

The words pricked at my chest like needles. My gut tightened, unease curling low and sharp. Something had happened—something big. I didn’t stop to ask questions. I pushed forward, weaving through the tables until I reached the kitchen.

Kiana was in the corner, her shoulders shaking as she buried her face in her hands. Kent stood beside her, pale, his jaw set tight.

“Kiana? Kent?” My voice came out lower than I intended, heavy with a concern I could barely contain. “What happened?”

Kiana didn’t answer. Her sobs grew louder, tearing through the room like small knives. The sound made my chest ache.

Kent exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It was Hana. She argued with a food and coffee critic. A big one—Nicco Samaniego.”

I froze. The name didn’t land at first, didn’t have a face in my mind—but the way Kent said it, the weight in his tone, told me enough. Whoever this Nicco was, he mattered. A lot.

Kent pressed on, laying it all out for me: the service mistake, the insult, the refusal to apologize, the dramatic resignation—all of it.

With every word, my jaw tightened. My pulse hammered against my temples. Hana. Of course. If she hadn’t already quit, I would’ve given her the scolding of a lifetime. I could picture it—her folding her arms, stubborn to the last breath, dragging all of us down with her pride.

“I’m really scared for our café,” Kiana whispered, her voice breaking between sobs. She lifted her head, eyes red, desperation carved into her face. “If Nicco writes a bad review… that’s it. We’re done.”

Kent nodded solemnly beside her. “Just one bad post from him, Troye. That’s all it would take. It could ruin everything we’ve built.”

Their fear was contagious. My own thoughts twisted, knotted. I rubbed a hand down my face, trying to steady myself, to think—but even I couldn’t hide the worry. One critic. One review. The power of words had never felt so dangerous.

Then Jaze burst into the kitchen, breathless, clutching his phone like a lifeline.

“Sir, you need to see this.” He shoved the screen in front of me.

I leaned in, my stomach dropping. The confrontation was already online. Viral. The comments section was on fire—angry, merciless.

“There are so many negative comments,” Hunter muttered from behind me, voice grim. “People are furious.”

“Some are saying Hana’s been rude before,” Benny added quickly. “And not just once. There are claims she’s been like this with other customers too.”

“I read one saying she always had an attitude,” Hunter followed up, his tone hard.

Jaze narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening. “Honestly? I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a spy. Sent by a rival café.”

The words froze me.

Not a rival café.

The thought slithered in, dark and unwelcome, but sharp enough to slice through my chest.

No… what if she was sent by my father?

My hands curled into fists before I could stop them. Heat flared in my chest, not from anger alone but from a familiar kind of dread—the kind that clung to me whenever I felt his shadow pressing down on my life.

Please, Dad… stop ruining everything I build.

I closed my eyes for a second, drawing in a shaky breath. The ache in Kiana’s sobs, the silence of Kent’s despair, the firestorm online—it all pointed to collapse. And yet, more than anything, the suspicion gnawed at me.

Leave this one thing alone.

This café was ours. Theirs. Mine. The only place that felt real, free from the legacy I never asked for. And if he really had planted her here—if my own father had poisoned us from the inside—then the war I’d been avoiding was already at our doorstep.