Chapter 2 2

Aurora

Every morning starts the same.

I brew a fresh cup of coffee, the scent curling through the air like a promise. Pancakes come next—simple, soft, warm. While they cook, I put on a song in the background, something gentle and slow. It fills the silence just enough. After breakfast, I clean my little space. It doesn’t take long; the apartment is small, just enough for me.

Then comes the outfit for the day, something clean, comfortable. I do the laundry in weekends only and I don’t have tons of clothes. I don’t find the use of buying branded and lots of outfits now. I take a hot shower, let the steam wrap around me like a soft veil, and then dress. My handbag is always by the door, ready. I slip it over my shoulder and head out.

The walk to the coffee shop takes fifteen minutes and it is peaceful. I like going by foot. It gives me time to breathe. To think.

At the shop, Anna and Max are already there. They’re from this town, they are kind and dependable. They work the espresso machine like artists, and they know the regulars better than I do. They treat the café like it’s their own, and I trust them more than I trust most people.

Everything feels normal. Safe. Routine.

Until today.

The bell above the door jingles like it always does. But when I look up, something shifts while making my heard race a little. I feel my chest tightening and I take along breathe. I act normal with a small smile on my lips.

A man steps inside he is tall, well-dressed, too polished for this town. His coat is dark, his hair neatly combed back, his shoes barely scuffed. He doesn’t look around like a tourist. He walks straight to the counter like he’s been here before.

“Espresso,” he says, voice calm. Low. Controlled. His eyes are darting on me like he is searching for something.

I nod and I make the drink without a word. My heart ticks faster, but my hands move on instinct and I make sure it is not trembling. When I pass him the cup, he meets my eyes steadily.

“Beautiful morning,” he says while he gazes around the café.

“Sure is,” I reply, forcing a smile.

He takes a seat by the window. Not a phone in sight. He watches the street. Watches the shop. And something about him doesn’t sit right. He’s too quiet. Too deliberate.

I glance at Anna. She shrugs. Max raises an eyebrow. None of us recognize him.

Still, he sits there. Drinking slowly. Waiting.

I wipe down the counter and try to focus, but my thoughts won’t settle. The routine that usually keeps me grounded suddenly feels fragile. He makes me feel uncomfortable in my own café.

I remind myself I’m Aurora. Just Aurora. I remind myself this town is far away from the life I left behind.

But deep down, a familiar fear stirs.

What if he’s not just a stranger?

What if he came here looking for me?

My breath hitches and I continue doing my work and try to ignore him.

A lot of people come here in the morning. Some skip breakfast entirely, others grab pastries on their way to work or school. It’s a rhythm I’ve grown used to the voices blending into the background, the smell of coffee grounding me in the now.

But today, that rhythm is off.

I catch myself playing with the hem of my shirt again, something I only do when I’m nervous. My eyes keep drifting toward the man at the window. He hasn’t touched his espresso in a while. Just sits there, watching quietly.

I glance toward the parking lot.

The white Bentley is still there, too cleaned and shiny, it is clearly expensive. It gleams under the morning sun, far too elegant for a town like this. It doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong here.

He’s taking too long to finish that coffee. Way too long.

As if he feels my eyes on him, he finally stands and approaches the counter again. My stomach tightens. I keep my expression neutral as he leans in slightly and keeping one arm on the counter.

“Do you know if there’s a church nearby?” he asks, his voice low and casual. “One with a statue of Saint Agatha out front?”

I blink.

Just for a second, I forget how to breathe.

Saint Agatha.

It’s not just a saint, it’s a symbol. A place. A name I haven’t heard since the night I ran. The church near my old home had a statue of her at the gate. It was where my father’s funeral was held. It’s where they told me I was getting married.

I force a small smile. “No... no, I don’t think there’s anything like that around here.”

He nods slowly, watching me a second too long, like he is watching if I flinched at his question. “Shame. Thought I’d seen one on the way in.”

Then he walks back to his seat calmly and totally unbothered. As if he hadn’t just reached into my past and pulled something dark into the room with us.

My fingers are still on the hem of my shirt, twisting it tight.

I try to breathe.

This peaceful life I’ve built suddenly feels paper-thin. Like it is about to tear into pieces.

I pretend to busy myself wiping the tables, but I’m not really cleaning. I’m listening. Watching.

The man doesn’t drink his coffee. Instead, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a black phone. The way he holds it is confident and deliberate, it’s not the kind of fumbling you see with tourists trying to find a contact. He knows exactly who he’s calling.

He stands, walks toward the window again, just a few feet from his table, and puts the phone to his ear.

He doesn’t speak right away. He waits.

Then, in a tone so quiet I almost miss it, he says, “Yeah... I think it’s her.”

My heart stumbles.

I grip the cloth in my hand tighter, my knuckles whitening. The sounds of the café go dim and the grinding espresso machine, the casual laughter, the clink of mugs, all of it fades into static behind that single sentence.

“I’m not sure yet,” he continues with eyes flicking across the room.

My stomach twists. I turn quickly and duck into the back, pretending to check the pastry inventory, my hands trembling just enough to make me spill a tray of wrapped cookies.

I crouch down, trying to breathe, heart hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to warn me.

He knows.

Or at least, he thinks he does.

And if he’s right… if he’s made that call to them—

Then I’m running out of time.

I try to steady my hands, to keep breathing like nothing’s wrong.

He finishes the last sip of his now-cold espresso. Every step he takes toward the counter echoes louder in my mind than it should. I just hope he does not pull out a gun and place it to my forehead. He stops in front of me, perfectly polite. Like we’re just two strangers having a normal morning interaction.

“Do you take reservations for meetings?” he asks smoothly, almost too friendly. “Just a quiet corner table. Tomorrow. Around ten.”

I nod slowly, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Yes. We can do that.” I need to know what is happening. Are they the people I think they are? Or not.

He smiles slightly. “Good. It’s a nice place you have here. Quiet. Comfortable. Friendly.”

I hesitate before closing the reservation book. “Why here?” I ask, careful with my tone. “Why have a meeting in a cozy little coffee shop like this?” I half smile.

He glances around the space, like he’s really taking it in for the first time.

“Because places like this put people at ease,” he says, his eyes returning to mine. “There’s something disarming about the smell of coffee and soft music. Makes people feel safe.”

He pauses, then leans in just slightly.

“Name for the booking?” I ask, avoiding eye contact.

He pauses.

Then says, “Let’s just call it… Vincent.”

Vincent.

It sounds fake. It feels fake.

But I write it anyway.

“And I’d like you to make the same espresso you made for me today. Exactly the same.”

I nod, throat suddenly dry. “Of course.”

“One more thing,” he adds, his voice smooth but firmer now. “Make sure no one else is here. I’d prefer… privacy.”

I freeze for a heartbeat.

Then force a smile. “Understood.”

He taps the counter lightly with his knuckles, as if sealing a deal, then turns and strolls out the door. The bell jingles behind him, but the sound doesn’t feel friendly anymore.

I stand there for a moment just glancing at the car leaving with reservation book still open, and my heartbeating far too fast.

Tomorrow. Ten a.m.

And I have no idea what he really wants.