Annabelle's POV
I walked out of the café like a zombie, still clutching my apron like it meant something—like it was some kind of lifeline instead of just another symbol of how I'd failed. Again.
The morning breeze hit my face, but it didn't cool the heat crawling up my neck. Embarrassment. Shame. And that aching pressure behind my eyes? Yeah, that was the tears fighting their way out. But I held them back. At least until I turned the corner and no one could see me.
Then I let them fall.
I wasn't even sobbing. Just… leaking sadness like a broken faucet.
I sat on the nearest bench and buried my face in my hands. What am I doing with my life? Twenty-one years old and I can't even hold a basic café job? Bertha's only fifteen and she's already getting invited to academic award dinners. Stephen has a great job in the city and just bought a new car. And me? I just got fired from a place that sells croissants and burnt coffee.
"I was born to suffer," I muttered to myself, wiping my cheeks with the sleeve of my hoodie.
Maybe if Dad were still around… maybe if I had just one ounce of his charm or whatever it was that made him successful, things would be different. But no. I'm the black sheep. The walking disaster. The girl whose alarm works, but life doesn't.
I pulled out my phone and stared at it. Should I call Mum? Tell her I lost the job? Again?
No. Not yet.
She'll say it's okay—because she always does—but I'll see it in her eyes. That little flicker of disappointment she tries to hide. And Grandma? She'll probably say something cryptic like "Life gives the hardest battles to the clumsiest soldiers," and then call me a 'fragile flower' or something that makes me cry even more.
So I just sat there, in my own little pity puddle, until I realized someone was standing in front of me.
I looked up—and my breath caught.
It was him.
The guy I ran into earlier at the café.
Tall. Sharp suit. Intense grey eyes. The kind of face that belonged in movies or perfume ads. And right now, he was looking at me like I was some kind of puzzle.
"You again," he said, voice low but crisp. "You're the hurricane that crashed into me this morning."
My cheeks flamed instantly. "I'm so sorry about that. I was—"
"Late. Yes, I gathered." His mouth twitched slightly, like he was trying not to smile. "You also dropped this."
He held up something small and shiny between his fingers.
My necklace.
The only thing I ever wore that had belonged to my dad. A delicate gold chain with a tiny seashell pendant.
"Oh my God!" I scrambled to take it from him, my hands fumbling. "Thank you so much. I didn't even realize—how did you—"
"You dropped it when you slammed into me like a freight train," he said dryly. "I figured you'd want it back."
"Thank you," I said again, quieter this time. "Seriously."
He looked me over, not in a creepy way, just… studying. "You okay?"
That question cracked something in me.
I opened my mouth to lie—to say 'yeah, I'm fine'—but what came out instead was, "I just got fired. Again. So no. I'm definitely not okay."
He blinked, slightly taken aback, then said something I didn't expect.
"Come with me."
I stared at him. "What?"
"I know a place. Somewhere you can catch your breath. Maybe talk."
"Why would I do that? I don't even know you."
He smiled. Not in a flirty way. In a I-know-you-don't-trust-anyone-but-maybe-you-should way.
"Call it a peace offering. Or maybe a lifeline." He paused. "You look like you need one."
And the crazy part? I believed him.
Maybe it was his voice. Or the fact that he didn't pity me. Or maybe I was just tired of falling apart alone.
"…Okay," I whispered, standing slowly. "But if you turn out to be a serial killer, I'm running."
He laughed—actually laughed—and it made me feel something I hadn't felt all day.
Hope.