The cool night air greeted you as you stepped out of the side door of the diner, the faint scent of grease and coffee still clinging to your clothes. It had been a long shift, but the feeling of earning your own way made the exhaustion worth it. The plans for your little apartment were finally within reach, and for the first time in a long time, things felt like they were falling into place.

Until you saw him.

Charles’ unmistakable red Ferrari was parked a few feet away, its sleek shine impossible to miss under the dim glow of the streetlights. He leaned casually against the car, a cigarette between his fingers, the ember flaring as he inhaled. His eyes met yours, dark and unreadable, and your heart sank. Of all places, why here?

You tightened your grip on your bag, determined to walk past him without a word, but he spoke before you could make it to the sidewalk.

“Why are you humiliating yourself by working as a waitress?” he asked, his voice calm, almost too calm, as though the words weren’t the dagger they were meant to be.

You froze for a moment, his question stirring equal parts anger and hurt. He had always been like this — controlling, dismissive, convinced that his way was the only way. It was why you’d left, why you were standing here now, working long shifts and starting fresh. You took a steadying breath, willing yourself not to let him pull you back into his orbit.