Hostile Affection

Chapter 4: Bittersweet Blend

Troye’s POV

The next day, the café felt different—quieter, heavier. I couldn’t shake the sense that even the walls were sagging under the weight of disappointment. Usually, the place thrummed with life, laughter echoing off every surface, but now… it was subdued. Customers trickled in, a handful at best, and even the espresso machine seemed to hiss less.

I tried to put on the same smile, the same practiced ease, but it didn’t stick. My body betrayed me—my steps slower, my shoulders slumped. The others noticed, I was sure. How could they not, when everything about this place felt wrong?

Maybe it was the aftermath of yesterday. Maybe it was me. Whatever it was, the shift was real, and it scared me.

Three days blurred by, and the fear only deepened. Our daily sales—which used to dance between forty to sixty thousand pesos—had dropped, and not just by a little. Twenty. Sometimes less. Each number etched itself into my chest, a heavy tally of failure.

By the third afternoon, I gave in. “Let’s close early,” I said, and no one argued. We gathered at the far table near the back, the one we always used when it was time to plan or panic. Today, it was both.

“Guys, what should we do?” I asked, breaking the silence. My voice was steady, but God, I was tired. I could hear it in my own words. “We can’t afford to have days like this. Not every day.”

Kent leaned forward, arms crossing like a shield. “What if we ran a promo? Buy-one-take-one, or maybe a free croissant for customers who spend at least a thousand pesos?”

Kiana shook her head, sharp and certain. “That could backfire. Instead of recovering, we might end up bleeding more.”

I nodded slowly. Kent wasn’t wrong, but Kiana had a point too. At a time like this, even a good idea could turn into a gamble.

Then Hunter, quiet until now, raised his hand almost like a student. “Sir… what if we asked for help from Sir Nicco Samaniego?”

The air shifted at that name.

Nicco.

He hadn’t said a word online about the incident. No brutal review. No sarcastic tweet. Not even a blurry photo hidden in a story. Silence. For someone with his reputation, that silence was louder than anything else.

My curiosity sparked despite myself. “Ask for help? What do you mean?”

Hunter straightened, speaking carefully, almost nervously. “I know someone who works with Sir Nicco. He says Nicco’s actually really kind. And you’ve seen it—he hasn’t posted anything bad about us.”

Kiana frowned. “Okay, but how does that help us?”

“Wait, Ma’am Kiana, hear me out,” Hunter said quickly. “What if we asked him to write a good review?”

Kent let out a dry laugh. “He barely drank his order. It was a disaster.”

“Then we send him coffee,” Hunter countered. “As a peace offering. A small gesture to make up for it.”

Kiana’s lips curved, a spark of optimism lighting her face. “Bravo, Hunter. That’s actually not bad.”

I tapped my finger against the table, chewing the thought over. It made sense, yes. And yet my chest tightened with unease. “I don’t know. What if he sees it as a bribe? That could backfire on us, too.”

Hunter’s confidence faltered. “That’s true…”

Then Kent spoke again, his voice firmer. “Here’s a compromise. We send him coffee—just coffee—as a peace offering. No notes, no expectations. For a week. After that, we invite him again. This time, properly.”

Kiana snapped her fingers. “Yes. Perfect. That’s what we’ll do.”

Around me, the tension eased, just slightly. The exhaustion in their faces didn’t vanish, but hope glimmered there, fragile but alive. For the first time in days, it felt like we had direction again.

When the others drifted off, I lingered at the counter, rag in hand, wiping down wood that was already spotless. My movements were slow, distracted, as a quiet thought settled in my chest.

Nicco Samaniego.

I had never seen him—not once. No pictures, no tags, nothing. I didn’t even know what he looked like. Six years of being off social media had cut me off from a world where everyone else seemed to know everyone.

To me, Nicco was just a name. A quiet, powerful name with the power to redeem us… or destroy us.

And yet, for someone invisible, he suddenly felt far too close.

***

Nicco’s POV

My head throbbed. Drafts, revisions, endless tweaks—the new building design had me cornered, and the presentation was only a week away. I wasn’t even halfway through, and the damn lines on my sketchpad blurred if I stared too long. Once this project was done, I swore, I’d throw myself a party.

“Hey, man, you’re looking way too serious over there,” Jacob said, glancing up from his laptop.

I huffed out a laugh without looking up. He wasn’t wrong. His house had practically become my second office these days. Him, Venice, Yasser, and Franco—Jacob’s boyfriend—all working around me in some messy version of co-working. Different industries, different creative projects, but somehow it worked. Their noise helped me think.

“Yeah. I’ve got a presentation next week. The client’s too eager and way too specific,” I muttered, rubbing at my temple.

“Then why’d you say yes?” Yasser asked, half-amused.

I shrugged. “The offer was huge. I couldn’t resist.”

“Then suffer now,” Franco quipped smugly from the couch.

Jacob’s voice cut in again. “Anyone want coffee? I’m about to order.”

“Wait—speaking of coffee—” Venice said, her tone sharp with mischief. “You still haven’t posted a review about that café. You know one post from you and that place is finished.”

I stilled. Four days had passed, and I hadn’t said a single word about what happened. My inbox was proof of it—DMs piling up, people speculating, waiting for me to drop my verdict.

“Hmmm.” Yasser smirked knowingly. “Maybe he’s into one of the owners. Wasn’t one of them named Kent?”

I snorted. “No. Not my type. I can’t do the overly muscled ones.”

That earned a round of laughter, which I let roll off me before adding, “I like them leaner. Shorter than me. Softer features. Someone I can baby. You all know I’m the daddy here.”

Their laughter exploded this time.

“Sure, sure,” Yasser said, still teasing.

Jacob, however, wasn’t joking. “But seriously, why haven’t you said anything? That crew member—the girl—she was awful. You were polite, and she still snapped at you.” His frown was deep, as if he’d been more offended than I was.

I set my pen down, flexing my hand. “Honestly? I feel bad for the owners. They seemed decent. Just unlucky with their staff.”

“Maybe your review won’t even matter anymore,” Franco said. “I saw a few posts—business is dropping. They’ve been closing early.”

Their words sank into me, but not in the way they thought. Everyone always expected me to deliver the knockout blow, the clean cut. That was my reputation: no sugarcoating, no mercy. And yet, the idea of being the reason someone’s dream collapsed sat like lead in my gut.

I’d already met two of them—Kent and Kiana, if I remembered right. Stressed, yes, but respectful. They’d been trying. I could see it in their eyes.

But the third…

The third owner was a ghost. No name, no introduction, not even a glimpse. I hadn’t seen a single photo. Nothing.

And for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, that gap itched at me. Like a puzzle with one missing piece.

Why did it bother me so much that I hadn’t seen him?

***

Troye’s POV

I lay in bed, unmoving, my eyes fixed on the dim ceiling as thoughts chased sleep away. Dread gnawed quietly at my chest. I couldn’t stop thinking about the future of our coffee shop. The tension had been building for days, but tonight, it felt suffocating.

Then there was Hana.

A part of me couldn’t shake the suspicion—what if she was a spy? Worse, what if she was planted there by my father?

The thought made my stomach twist. Honestly, I’d rather discover she was working undercover for a rival café. Anything but that. Because if it turned out my father had a hand in this—if he was still meddling in my life, even now—I wasn’t sure I could ever forgive him.

But that wasn’t the only secret eating away at me.

There was something else. Something Kent and Kiana still didn’t know.

A month ago, I signed a contract with a major publishing company in the U.S.—a dream opportunity for any writer. The job was fully remote, no need to leave the country, but I knew the workload wouldn’t be light. Once it began, I’d be swamped with revisions, deadlines, meetings, and book tours—online or not.

And neither of them had the slightest idea that I was the author behind the viral books making rounds on the internet.

Not a clue.

No one did.

I had started my writing journey six years ago—the same year I left my father’s house, vowing to live on my own terms.

---

Six Years Ago

Rejection had become my closest companion.

I can still see the emails stacked in my inbox, another cold “Thank you for your submission, but…” flashing on the screen. Every manuscript I sent out was either flat-out rejected or returned with notes that chipped away at my self-worth.

Fantasy. Sci-fi. Even horror.

Nothing worked.

It didn’t matter how much heart I poured into the pages. My stories weren’t what publishers were looking for. I felt like a puzzle piece that didn’t belong in any box.

Then, one quiet evening, I pivoted.

I wrote something different. Stories that breathed everyday pain and quiet hope. Stories about simple lives and complicated hearts. Stories people could actually see themselves in.

And just like that—my first slice-of-life manuscript was accepted.

That one yes changed everything.

Success didn’t happen overnight, but it began to build. Slowly. Steadily. Midnight Montefalco—the pen name I adopted—started climbing charts, gathering readers, trending online.

But I never revealed my face.

“Why don’t you use your real name, Troye?” Miss Violet, my editor-in-chief, asked me once. “Your readers adore your work. They want to see you. You always wear a cap and mask at book signings. You’re like a ghost.”

“Miss Violet,” I told her gently, “it’s better this way. Let’s keep it as Midnight Montefalco.”

“But why?” she pressed. “You’re missing so many opportunities. You’re handsome, charming—readers would fall even more in love with your stories if they knew who you were.”

I knew how persistent she could be, but eventually, I told her the truth—about my past, about my family, about the man I was trying so hard to leave behind.

She listened. And when I finished, her eyes welled with tears.

She never asked me again.

——

A single tear slipped from my eye as I stared into the darkness.

I’d made it. Somehow. I was a successful writer—something I never thought I could become. All my novels were bestsellers. My name, or at least the one I chose, was always trending.

And still, no one knew who Midnight Montefalco really was.

I wanted to keep it that way.

Eventually, the storm in my head quieted, and sleep came like a silent tide, pulling me under.

——

The Next Morning

I woke with a rare sense of optimism. Today marked the beginning of the plan—our peace offering to Nicco, a symbolic gesture to smooth over last week’s disaster.

I moved with quiet energy, tending first to Scarlet, who blinked at me lazily from the foot of the bed. I greeted her with a gentle scratch behind the ears before slipping into my morning routine: shower, brush, dress, and double-check the checklist taped to the fridge door.

By 6:30 AM sharp, I was slipping on my shoes.

“Bye, Scarlet. I’ll see you later. Everything’s prepared—I know you’re a big girl,” I murmured softly.

Her food bowls were filled—one for breakfast, one for lunch—and the litter box had been cleaned spotless. She was trained well, independent yet affectionate, and somehow, she always seemed to understand my words.

I leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead before stepping out the door.

When I arrived at Caffeine Chapter, the energy inside matched my own. Kent and Kiana were already behind the counter, organizing pastries and setting the espresso machine into rhythm. The air smelled of fresh beans and vanilla glaze.

The peace offering—a meticulously arranged paper bag of coffee and assorted pastries—was already waiting on the counter. Jaze, one of our crew members, was tasked with the delivery. It had taken us a full day of online digging and discreet inquiries to confirm Nicco’s address.

“There’s so much in here. Are we planning to bankrupt ourselves?” Kiana teased, eyeing the weight of the bag.

“It’s better this way,” Kent said without looking up. “We don’t want Nicco thinking we’re stingy. A critic with a bruised ego is a dangerous thing.”

I gave a small nod, my eyes fixed on the package. “Make sure it looks presentable. I really hope this pays off.”

Benny, one of our newer crew members, offered me a reassuring grin. “Let’s keep it positive, Sir Troye. I’m sure Sir Nicco will appreciate it.”

“I’m heading out now,” Jaze announced, lifting the bag with both hands, careful not to crush anything. “Wish me luck.”

As Jaze walked out the door, the café fell back into its usual rhythm—but I remained still, my phone in hand, eyes occasionally darting toward the screen. I was waiting.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. Nearly twenty. Still, no message. No call.

***

Nicco’s POV

The shrill sound of the doorbell yanked me out of sleep.

I groaned and rolled over, burying half my face into the pillow. Who the hell rings a doorbell at seven in the morning? I usually don’t get up until ten. This—whatever this was—was not part of my carefully curated schedule.

But the ringing didn’t stop. Insistent. Unrelenting.

“God, seriously?” I muttered, throwing the blanket off me.

With a frustrated sigh, I sat up, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes barely open. The floor felt like ice against my bare feet as I trudged toward the front door. Before unlocking it, I leaned toward the side camera, squinting at the blurry figure on the screen.

The uniform looked familiar.

Caffeine Chapter?

My brow furrowed.

I unlocked the door, and there stood a young man clutching a neatly packed paper bag with a gold-stamped logo I’d unfortunately come to recognize. The scent of brewed coffee and freshly baked bread wafted into the hallway, and for a split second, it almost smelled inviting.

“Good morning, Sir Nicco! I’m from Caffeine Chapter and—”

I squinted at him, barely processing. “Wait, what? Come again?”

“I’m from Caffeine Chapter, sir,” he repeated, still trying to sound cheerful, though the confidence had started to slip from his voice.

And just like that, the name clicked. Caffeine Chapter. That place. My jaw tightened. That was the café that served me cold, bitter coffee and couldn’t even get an order right.

“I remember now,” I said flatly, cutting him off. “Why are you here? I didn’t order anything. Go back to your café.”

He hesitated, shifting the bag from one hand to the other. “Sir, this is our… peace offering.” His voice dipped lower this time, unsure, almost pleading.

I didn’t even blink. “I don’t care. Get lost, or I’ll call security.”

And before he could say another word, I shut the door in his face.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the silent hallway. The lingering scent of coffee clung to the air, and instead of softening me, it irritated me more.

A peace offering? I dragged a hand across my face. I barely got any sleep last night, and now this?

And then another thought hit me like a jab to the ribs.

How the hell did they even get my address?

My teeth ground together. They were giving me more than enough reasons to write a bad review.