Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
There is one thing I don't translate because there's no direct English translation. It's the Sion mami which is just a formality of greeting your elders asking for blessings, no direct translation, so don't @me.
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After that work event, things settled into a new kind of normal, though my heart still flutters every time I remember Chris saying he loves me. I can't shake the giddiness that bubbles up every time we're together now. We haven't been able to stay separated since, practically glued at the hip. But then, there's Rebecca. Always Rebecca.
I know their connection is tied up in some family drama that I technically shouldn't be poking my nose into, but how can I not? She's always there—at his apartment, at events, clinging to him like she's trying to prove a point. It's hard to ignore when she's parading around in front of me like a peacock in designer heels.
Sighing, I pull out my phone to text Scarlett. Hey, will you be home later? Thinking about dropping by.
A minute later, her reply comes in. Not till late. Working overtime, ugh.
Of course. Always working. Scarlett is the queen of overworking herself.
As soon as Chris heads into his meeting, I decide it's the perfect time for a lunch break—and more importantly, a coffee break. After the chaotic morning I had juggling meetings, schedules, and random tasks, I need caffeine like I need air.
I make my way down to the lobby, giving the front desk workers a quick smile. They know me well enough by now—Chris's assistant, always running around like the Energizer bunny. I step out onto the busy streets of Seattle, the cool breeze hitting my face as I weave through the crowds. The rhythm of the city is oddly comforting, its constant hustle making me feel like I'm part of something bigger, even when my own world feels like a soap opera.
Maybe I'll get lucky and Rebecca won't pop up out of nowhere today, I think to myself with a wry smile. One can dream, right?
As I approach the coffee shop, I can already see how packed it is. The usual chaos of a lunch rush, nothing unusual—except for the man leaning casually against the entrance, smoking a cigarette. Nicolás Acosta. My stomach drops, and I falter mid-step. This cannot be a coincidence. Alarm bells ring in my head, but before I can even think to turn away, his eyes land on me. How the hell does he know I'd be here? It's not like I come to this coffee shop every day. No set pattern. This feels too orchestrated.
I watch as he flicks the cigarette to the ground and stomps it out, his movements calm, calculated. My eyes follow the motion, every second dragging, as if my mind is trying to slow everything down, make sense of the surreal moment. Nicolás tosses me a smile—a slow, deliberate smile that doesn't reach his eyes—and suddenly, the bustling street around me feels smaller, tighter. Crowded, yes. But safe? I'm not so sure anymore.
"Miss Casana," his voice is smooth, too smooth, and the way it slithers through the air makes my heart rate spike.
I square my shoulders, trying to appear unfazed, but my pulse betrays me. "Is this a coincidence too?" I skip the pleasantries, my words sharp. Nicolás's lips curl into that infuriating smirk, the kind that reeks of control. The kind that says he's three steps ahead, and I'm just catching up.
