𝐄𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐭 𝐃𝐞 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐚
25 years old, a billionaire and Mafia Don. Everyone fears, admires and respects him.
𝐒𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐕𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐬
20 years old and works in a bakery. Despite having a bad past, she is a really sweet and down-to-earth per...
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The shrill beep of my alarm shattered the quiet of my room, grating on my nerves. Groaning, I swung my hand down to silence it but misjudged and smacked my hand on the corner of the nightstand.
"Ouch," I hissed, cradling my now-throbbing hand. Rubbing my eyes, I let out a soft sigh, wishing I could go back to sleep. Work could wait—or so I thought until my gaze landed on my phone screen. My heart dropped.
Damn it. Mrs. Clinton is going to kill me.
I shot out of bed, panic fueling my every move, and sprinted to the bathroom. I was already 15 minutes late for my shift at the bakery. Honestly, it was a miracle the owner hadn't fired me yet.
After my parents and older brother’s death—and the incident I didn’t dare dwell on—I started living on my own in a cozy little apartment.
It wasn’t much, just a one-bedroom space with a small living room, kitchen, and a decent-sized balcony. But it fit me perfectly. The aesthetic aligned with my tastes, and the fully furnished interior had been a bonus when I first moved in.
Yes, it was small. Yes, the bills sometimes left me biting my nails in anxiety. But I was happier now than I had been in years, and that counted for something.
Shaking off the lingering weight of my thoughts, I rushed through my shower and darted into my room. The warm weather outside called for something breezy. I slipped on a pastel pink skirt that stopped just above my knees and paired it with a white, long-sleeved blouse. Simple, cute, and comfortable. Perfect.
I left my hair down, applied a quick swipe of lip gloss, grabbed my phone, and locked my apartment. Then I dashed down the streets of Athens, my bag bouncing against my side. At least the bakery was only fifteen minutes away. The beauty of Greece—the soft, early morning sunlight spilling over the ancient architecture, the cheerful chatter of birds—helped soothe my nerves. Nature always did.
But not enough to dull the anxiety clawing at my chest. Mrs. Clinton would be furious.
When the pink storefront of Moonlight Bakery came into view, I slowed down to catch my breath. Brace yourself.
As I pushed open the door and hurried toward the kitchen, a hand clamped down on my arm. The grip was unyielding, sharp enough to make me flinch.
"Seriously? Late again? This is the third time this week!" Mrs. Clinton's voice hit me like a freight train. Her shrill screech made me wince, but I didn’t dare meet her glare.
"I-I'm sorry," I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart pounded in my chest. "It won’t happen again."
She huffed, her lips curling into a scowl. "Yeah, sure. Whatever. Just get to work. We’ve got customers coming in."
