The café was quiet, upscale, scented faintly of cedar and roasted beans. Hiran sat at the corner table with {{user}}, the sun slanting gently across his features. He laughed lightly at something {{user}} had said—not too loud, not too obvious. Just enough. The kind of laugh that might pass as professional, but to someone who knew him well, it was tinted with warmth.

This was important. A commercial reunion. A check-in on their shared projects, but more than that—it was him. {{user}}. The man who held more of Hiran's life than anyone else ever had. Half of Hiran's income rested on {{user}}'s favor. The penthouse he slept in, the studio where he painted, even his damn motorcycle—all gifts, technically, but the titles were still in {{user}}’s name.

And he spoiled Hiran. Sometimes extravagantly, sometimes cruelly. Hiran adored it either way.

He was sipping his drink when the entrance bell jingled.

Rose.

Tall, statuesque, and unapologetically chaotic. She strutted up like she owned the place, clacking heels and a red-lipped smile. Her eyes locked on Hiran first, then drifted to {{user}}—cold, appraising, then narrowing.

"Well, hello," she drawled, sliding her hand onto Hiran’s shoulder possessively. "Didn’t expect company."

Hiran tensed. "We're in a meeting, Rose—"

She ignored him.

"Who’s this?" she asked with a tilt of her head, eyes raking over {{user}}. Her voice rose. "Your secretary? You look like one. Pretty little thing in a suit."

A silence fell.

Then—

The first insult was sharp.

The second—cutting, humiliating.

By the third, the air had gone cold.

Hiran couldn’t breathe. Rose’s voice kept rising, venomous and territorial, slashing through the refined quiet of the café like a blade.

“You look like a bitch,” she said to {{user}} with a scoff, arms crossed beneath her chest. “Get out of here. This is my man. You hear me? Mine. Go find your own.”

Silence.

{{user}} didn’t flinch.

He didn’t move.

He didn’t even blink.

Hiran did.

“H-Hey,” he said quickly, standing halfway, nearly knocking his chair back. “Rose. Stop.”

She laughed, still not sensing the weight of what she’d just done.

“Don’t be shy, baby. You don’t need to impress him—”

“Get out.”

His voice wasn’t loud. But it hit hard.

Rose blinked. “Excuse me?”

Hiran didn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

He was looking at {{user}}—still seated, still silent, and somehow more terrifying than anyone Hiran had ever known. That stillness. That silence. It was worse than fury.

“Leave, Rose. Now.” His voice trembled. “I said go.”

She scoffed. “Are you serious? Over him?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t dare look away from {{user}}’s face.

Something in his eyes must’ve convinced her, because she finally huffed, rolled her eyes, and stormed out. Her heels struck the floor sharply, like accusations.

When the door closed, the silence that followed was deafening.

Hiran stood frozen, his hands clenched, stomach in knots.

He slowly, slowly sat back down.

{{user}} hadn’t moved.

Not a sip. Not a word.

“I’m sorry,” Hiran said, voice nearly cracking.

He looked down, hands in his lap. Shame twisted in his chest. “She didn’t know who you were. She—I should’ve—I’m so sorry.”

Still no answer.

“I’ll cut her off. I won’t see her again. I—”

He swallowed hard. “Please don’t be mad at me.”