C2 Coffee girl

Daphne

Three years later

Some mornings I still woke up expecting the world to smell like lavender and espresso — the way it used to when I lived with Antonio.

Now, it just smelled like cheap detergent and burnt toast.

I shoved the toast into my mouth anyway, slung my worn-out tote bag over my shoulder, and stepped out of my cramped apartment. The air outside was cold, sharp, and unforgiving — like the city itself. Velmor City, the place where dreams went to die and ambition was the currency of survival.

I used to belong somewhere brighter.

Now, I was just another face in a sea of people trying to make rent.

Nikolaou Holdings towered over downtown like a glass fortress. Every time I walked in, I felt small — a reminder that I was a nobody working for people who would never learn my name. I’d been here eight months, and I still didn’t know who my direct supervisor was half the time.

Administrative Assistant, Level 2. That’s what my ID card said.

Translation: glorified errand girl.

Still, it paid the bills. Barely.

“Morning, Daph!”

The voice came from my left. Irene caught up to me, all blonde curls, bright lipstick, and contagious energy. She was the only person who’d made my work life even remotely tolerable.

“You look like death,” she chirped cheerfully, sipping her iced coffee.

“Thanks. I was going for ‘corporate zombie,’” I said dryly.

She laughed. “Well, mission accomplished. Anyway, you heard the news?”

I groaned. “Irene, if this is about the new coffee machine again—”

“No, no, not that! Bigger!” she said, eyes sparkling with gossip. “The boss is coming back.”

I frowned. “The boss?”

She looked at me like I’d just crawled out from under a rock. “Yes, the boss. The CEO. Mr. Nikolaou himself. He’s been managing operations abroad for years, but apparently he’s back to take direct control. The entire upper management is freaking out.”

I blinked, trying to remember the last time I’d even heard his name. “So what, we get a new set of rules to follow and more impossible deadlines?”

“Probably. But rumor says he’s young. And—” she lowered her voice dramatically, “hot.”

I rolled my eyes. “You say that about every man with a jawline.”

She grinned. “I have good taste! Anyway, everyone’s been warned to look their best today. The big man’s supposed to arrive this morning.”

Great. Another day of pretending to care while running on caffeine and regret.

The next few hours passed in a blur of paperwork, phone calls, and too many people panicking about their presentations. The whole building buzzed with nervous energy. Flowers appeared in the lobby, floors gleamed like mirrors, and HR started handing out extra company pins like holy relics.

I couldn’t care less. I had reports to file and three printers that wouldn’t cooperate.

By noon, Irene popped her head over my cubicle wall. “Guess what?”

I didn’t even look up. “You’re pregnant with Elvis’s ghost?”

“The boss is here,” she whispered, giddy. “He arrived thirty minutes ago in some black car that probably costs more than this building. Everyone on the top floor is losing it.”

“That’s nice,” I muttered, stapling documents with a vengeance.

“Don’t be such a downer,” she said, smirking. “You never know, maybe he’ll notice your incredible stapling technique and promote you.”

“Ha ha,” I deadpanned.

But fate apparently had a sense of humor, because fifteen minutes later, I got an email notification from the receptionist.

> From: Reception

Subject: Urgent – Coffee Service

Daphne, could you please take coffee to the CEO’s office on the 25th floor? The usual intern called in sick. Thank you!

I stared at the message in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Irene snorted. “Oh, this is divine punishment for all your sarcasm.”

“I don’t even serve coffee!”

“Today, you do.” She winked. “Go make it count.”

---

The elevator ride felt like an eternity.

Every floor I passed was sleeker, quieter, more expensive-looking. By the time I reached the twenty-fifth floor, my palms were sweating, and my nerves were buzzing with something I couldn’t name.

The hallway smelled like luxury — polished wood, subtle cologne, and power. I carried the tray carefully, forcing my hands not to shake. The receptionist outside the corner office gave me a brief glance before nodding. “Go right in. He’s expecting it.”

He’s expecting it.

I pushed the door open.

And froze.

The air hit me first — cool, heavy, electric.

Then the scent. That familiar, intoxicating mix of cedarwood and something darker that used to linger on my skin long after he’d kissed me goodnight.

He was standing by the window, back turned to me, tall and broad-shouldered in a tailored black suit that fit him too perfectly to be anyone else. His hands were in his pockets. His hair was slightly longer than I remembered, his frame sharper, colder.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

My breath caught in my throat. The coffee tray trembled in my hands.

He turned.

And there he was.

Antonio.

Alive. Older. Harder. A storm in a tailored suit.

Our eyes met — his dark, unreadable, mine wide and frozen — and time folded in on itself.

The coffee cup slipped from my fingers, shattering against the marble floor. The sound echoed through the office like a gunshot.

He didn’t flinch.

He just stared.

And in that silence, every memory I’d buried clawed its way back to the surface.

The room spun. My pulse roared in my ears. I wanted to speak — to say something — but my voice had vanished.

Antonio took a slow step forward, his expression was unreadable, every movement calculated. His eyes burned into mine with a mix of recognition, disbelief… and something darker.

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening.

“Antonio,” I breathed.

It was barely a whisper.

The corner of his mouth lifted — not in a smile, but in something colder. Crueler.

“Hello, Daphne.”