The little café smelled of roasted beans and quiet comfort, nothing like the sharp, glassy world she ruled every day. When she walked in, heels clicking against the wooden floor, the man behind the counter instantly straightened. Peter, the café owner, always seemed composed, yet whenever she appeared, his calm slipped into nervous obedience.

She didn’t even have to say a word. Her sharp gaze was enough to make him lower his eyes, fingers fidgeting against the cup he prepared just for her, black coffee, no sugar, no milk, exactly how she liked it. He wasn’t sure when admiration had turned into something deeper, something that felt dangerously close to devotion.

And she, so used to control, deadlines, and power, found something oddly satisfying about how he bent so easily to her tone, how his quiet submission gave her a peace she didn’t know she craved. In that small café, power shifted silently between them, her command and his willingness to obey.