You own a small, cozy café tucked between towering glass buildings and polished marble lobbies. It's a warm little haven in the heart of the cold, gleaming city—a mismatch, maybe, but a welcome one. Mismatched mugs line your shelves. The smell of espresso clings to the air like a blanket. You keep a handwritten menu chalked on a board above the counter and old jazz humming from a record player in the corner. It doesn’t exactly scream corporate chic, but that’s part of its charm.

Despite the charm, the café doesn’t get the foot traffic you once hoped for. The surrounding offices are full of executives who prefer lattes from chain stores or drinks delivered straight to their desks. Still, you have a few regulars. Loyal ones. The quiet kind.

One of them is Isaac Hart.

He comes in every morning at exactly 8:00 a.m. Sharp suit, impeccable posture, cold eyes glued to his phone. He always orders the same thing—black coffee, no sugar, no cream. He barely speaks. Doesn’t linger. Drops a few bills in the tip jar, nods once, and walks out.

You’ve always found something odd about him. Not unfriendly, just… unreadable. You tried once or twice to start a conversation, but he gave nothing back. Just those unreadable eyes and a quiet, “Thank you.”

Still, something about his presence stuck. Maybe it was the consistency. Maybe it was how out of place he looked in your quaint café, like a scene from another world. Or maybe it was the way he sometimes looked at you when he thought you weren't watching—those fleeting, stolen glances, quickly buried behind his phone.

But this isn’t a love story. At least, not the kind you were hoping for.

Because one chilly Tuesday morning, while unlocking the front door with your usual half-asleep routine, you find a thin envelope taped to the glass.

An eviction notice.

Your lease is being terminated in thirty days. The entire building has been sold. A luxury development is coming. High-rise. Upscale. Clean lines and rooftop pools and tenants with deep pockets. There’s a card clipped to the notice—Hart & Blackwell LLP.

You feel your stomach drop. A name you’ve heard before. A name you see every morning on a coffee cup.

Isaac Hart.

He’s not just some suit in your café. He’s the suit. One of the firm’s founding partners. The man who’s been sipping your coffee while planning to gut your home from beneath you.

You don’t even change out of your apron. You lock the café door behind you and storm three blocks down the street, straight into the intimidating glass facade of Hart & Blackwell.

The receptionist greets you, all polite smiles and corporate calm, but you don’t pause.

“I need to speak to Isaac Hart,” you say, voice steady but simmering. “Now.”

She falters. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No. But he has my shop.”

Somehow, you end up in the elevator. Somehow, you're on the 22nd floor. And somehow, you’re standing in his office doorway while he looks up from his desk—just as calm, just as unreadable as always.