From Hate Flourishes Love (Editing)

In Your Best Interests

🅩🅐🅝🅓🅔🅡

I wake up from the recurring memories of my fiancée. It was 3 years, 5 days, 11 hours, and 45 seconds since I lost her, or maybe I had lost her long before. She left me on your wedding day. The most important days of both of our lives, but I hadn't given her much of a chance. Who wouldn't run after finding out that their future husband was a cheat?

Most brides-to-be who ran away found sanctum, but, with me as groom-to-be, Elizabeth fled to her death. What could be worse than finding out that your fiancée died in a car crash? Knowing that I was to blame for why she was driving while distracted. The tabloid dubbed Elizabeth's death as the ' bride dies running from her unfaithful fiancé amidst their Hollywood glamour wedding.'

Yet nothing could beat having my parents be more upset over the negative shadow falling on their company than the death of the woman who was supposed to be their future daughter-in-law. I was supposed to start working with my father after my wedding day, but my parents and the respected board members of Storm Industries decided that it was better for the world to forget me and my fiascoes before I stepped anywhere near the family company.

And now that I was 27, and the world had moved on from Elizabeth, I would take over the company.

A little after wallowing in the comfort of my bed and the pit of sadness that was my mind, I decided to head to work. I'm already months over 27, and my parents were signing over the company to me today, so they would move on to a new adventure.

I grab a suit from my closet and head down to my car. After around twenty minutes of driving, my stomach finally woke up with the rest of my body, telling me that I needed to eat something soon. The cook my parents hired to keep me fed and alive quit yesterday.

I drive around for a few minutes before recalling the directions to a bakery that my mother had been recommending that I go to get coffee and breakfast pastries from. For a woman who imported her coffee beans from El Salvador and hired French pastry chefs to cook at her parties, her interest in a small New York bakery was doubtful. Nonetheless, not wanting my parents to find a reason to give me a headache about arriving at work hungry, I go against my better judgment and step into the bakery.

The bakery seemed sheltered from the ever-busy New York, so hopefully no one would recognize me. The café's atmosphere was filled with the air of freshly baked goods, which made my stomach growl.

Not seeing anyone at the counter, I ring the bell. It takes a few seconds, but a young boy comes from the back, his face and curly hair both boasting the whiteness of flour. It was an amazingly cute sight to witness.

I draw myself from my train of thought when he clears his throat at me. His eyes pierced through my mind like he knew everything I was thinking; he knew what I was hiding. I almost felt connected to him in some way.

I decided to order a bagel, a doughnut, and a cup of black coffee.

Making note of my order, he goes to clear a table, probably for me to sit. After staring at him for far too long, I decided to look at the menu to see if there was anything else I could order.
After some time, he taps me on the shoulder.

"You can sit over there while I get your order," he points to the front of the café, where he had just made a table for me to sit and wait.

I pass the wait time on my phone until he comes back, and places my order in front of me.

Before I ask where my coffee was, he answers, "Your coffee will be ready in a few seconds."

He leaves the table before I can complain about the slow service. He's working at an awfully slow pace. And unfortunately, his terrible service skills were going to put me in trouble with my parents. Fed up with the sluggish service, I decided to leave. I stand unaware that he was near. He bounces into me, spilling black hot coffee all over my suit.