C31 Cafe di Niro

SYDNEY

I had always been the girl who never lost. In high school, in college, in every catfight with my stepmother’s precious debutantes, I always came out on top. I was Sydney Stallone —sharp, dazzling, untouchable.

But when I closed the office door after Alaric told me I was exhausting, my chest cracked open like fragile glass.

I didn’t even remember the elevator ride down. I just knew I was standing in the parking lot, clutching my keys so hard they cut half-moons into my palm, fighting not to cry in front of the valet boys.

By the time I got home, the fight was over. I lost.

And for the first time in my life, I had no witty comeback, no clever scheme, no glossy mask to hide behind. Just tears. Ugly, heaving sobs that wracked through me until I curled on my couch with mascara staining the throw pillows.

I hated him. I hated myself more.

---

The next morning, my pride was buried somewhere under an avalanche of shame. I scrolled through my phone with shaking fingers until I found Rivera’s name.

Gather the girls. I lost.

The typing bubbles appeared immediately. Then: Wait. WHAT?

I sent another message before I lost the nerve. Yes. I surrender. Meet at Café Niro.

---

Café Niro was our so-called war room, where all my wild schemes had been born over overpriced cappuccinos. The irony wasn’t lost on me that I was walking into my own funeral there.

Rivera spotted me first. She was lounging against the booth like she owned the place, a killer red blazer draped over her shoulders. Cindy sat opposite, stirring her iced latte like she was already bored with the world.

“Well, well, well,” Rivera drawled as I slid into the booth. “The queen finally takes off her crown.”

Cindy smirked. “I didn’t think you’d admit defeat. Honestly, I was ready to stage an intervention.”

I dropped my bag onto the seat with a heavy sigh. “Don’t gloat. I’m already dead inside.”

Rivera arched a brow. “Dead inside? You? The Sydney Stallone? Oh, this must be serious.”

I groaned, covering my face with both hands. “It is. I tried everything. Seduction, charm, wit—you name it. And do you know what he called me?”

“Please don’t say cheap,” Cindy muttered.

I peeked between my fingers. “Exhausting.”

Rivera nearly choked on her coffee. Cindy burst into laughter so loud people turned to stare.

“Oh my God,” Rivera gasped, clutching her stomach. “That’s brutal. I like this guy more already.”

“Don’t you dare,” I hissed, smacking her arm. “He’s a monster.”

Cindy leaned back with a grin. “A monster who clearly has you wrapped around his finger. Look at you. You’re wrecked.”

“I am not wrecked,” I snapped. Then softer, “Okay, maybe a little wrecked.”

Rivera folded her arms, smug. “Well, Sydney, a bet’s a bet. You lost. Now you pay up.”

I straightened, trying to salvage what little dignity I had left. “Fine. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. Just get it over with.”

Cindy’s eyes glittered with mischief. “Oh, we’ve been waiting for this moment. Haven’t we, Rivera?”

Rivera grinned like a cat with cream. “Absolutely.”

As they whispered gleefully about my impending humiliation, I slumped deeper into the booth. For once, I wasn’t fighting it. I almost welcomed the punishment. Because maybe, just maybe, it would distract me from the cold truth gnawing at my insides:

I hadn’t just lost the bet. I had lost Alaric too.

---

ALARIC

Peace.

That was what I told myself after Sydney stormed out. No more perfume choking the office, no more ridiculous dresses designed to test my patience, no more sparkling eyes trying to unravel me.

Peace.

But after three days, peace began to feel like suffocation.

She hadn’t come to work. Not a single sign of her. No chatter, no arguments, no clever schemes. It was like she had vanished.

Finally, I asked Paige. “Where’s Sydney?”

Her smile was too polished. “Oh, she’s… taking a leave of absence. Needed some rest.”

“Rest?” I raised an eyebrow. “Sydney Stallone doesn’t rest. She makes noise.”

Paige just shrugged, far too calmly. “Well, even divas burn out.”

Unsatisfied, I cornered her uncle, Ross later.

He adjusted his glasses, avoiding my gaze. “She’s fine. Just… cooling off. I’ll talk to her father about it.”

His voice was controlled, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him. They were all hiding something.

That night, I told Maya as I set down the dishes. “Good riddance. She’s gone. No more chaos. No more games.”

She looked at me knowingly, folding her arms. “You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.” She tilted her head. “If you did, you wouldn’t keep bringing her up.”

I scowled, more defensive than I meant to sound. “I don’t miss her. I miss quiet. Order.”

Maya only smirked. “You keep telling yourself that, Alaric.”

---

Several Days Later

It was pure accident I saw it.

The break room TV was tuned to the morning news. I wasn’t even paying attention until her name cut through the static in my mind.

“—Sydney Stallone, actress and socialite, was involved in a car accident late last night. She is currently hospitalized—”

The world tilted.

The coffee cup slipped from my fingers, shattering on the floor. My chest constricted like a vice.

Hospitalized.

The anchor’s voice droned on, but I heard nothing else. Only the ringing in my ears, the pounding of my own pulse.

I told myself to keep walking. That this was what she did—cause chaos, draw attention. That it didn’t matter.

But my legs wouldn’t move. My fists clenched until my nails dug into my palms.

Maya’s voice broke through, muffled and far away. “Alaric? What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t answer. Because the truth roared louder than anything else:

For the first time in decades, I was afraid.

Afraid of losing her.

---