Chapter - Eighteen

Does the heart fall in love before you realize it, or do you only recognize it once it's too late?

After a sharp scolding from Hayat, the boys slumped onto the sofa, exchanging silent glances. The weight of her words still lingered in the air.

Hayat had left to visit her husband and daughter, her disapproving gaze the last thing they saw before the door clicked shut behind her. Kennedy had also stepped out, heading for groceries—and knowing her, she'd likely make a quick stop at her house before returning.

"Well," Kais muttered, staring at the ceiling. "That went well."

"Yeah, if by 'well' you mean barely surviving," the Michael shot back, rubbing a hand over his face. 

I glanced at my watch. An hour had passed since breakfast, though it felt much longer. The weight of Hayat's scolding still lingered in the air, pressing down on us like a thick, invisible force.

She had been furious—arms crossed, voice sharp, her dark eyes burning with disappointment. We had stood there, silent and sheepish, looking every bit like children caught in the act. It was almost laughable, really. Three grown men, reduced to schoolboys under her stern gaze.

Ironic. None of us had mothers, yet here we were, being chastised by a woman who treated us as if we were her own. And strangely, it wasn't an entirely bad experience. There was something grounding about it, something almost... warm.

The room had settled into a quiet hum after she left. Kennedy had gone out for groceries, her usual routine. The only sounds now were the distant murmur of the city outside and the occasional creak of the old sofa as one of us shifted.

I leaned back, stretching lazily before fixing my gaze on Kais. A smirk played at my lips as I arched an eyebrow.

"Well enough," I said, voice casual but edged with amusement. "I presume it's time for you to start my interview."

The interview began shortly after, steering me back to the days following our first meeting.

I had returned to the café.

Maybe it was the coffee. Maybe it was the atmosphere. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because I wanted to see Emma again.

This time, I wasn't going to let our conversation be a fleeting moment. I was determined to get to know her.

Pushing open the door, I stepped inside, the familiar scent of roasted coffee beans filling the air. My gaze immediately scanned the counter, anticipation bubbling in my chest.

And then—

Not Emma.

Instead, a familiar, unimpressed face greeted me from behind the counter.

"So, you're here again," the barista—not Emma—remarked dryly.

I forced a smile. "Hi there, Anderson."

I could already tell this was going to be disappointing.

I had been frequenting this café like a man on a mission, and yet every single time, I was met with the same soul-crushing response: "Oh, Emma's out on an urgent matter."

At this point, I was starting to question reality. How was a café employee busier than me—a musician whose debut the entire country was supposedly waiting for? Was she moonlighting as a secret agent? Running an underground empire? If she was making more than me, maybe I needed to rethink my career.

"Ardel's Lemonade—A Dollar a Cup."

The mental image of me standing on a street corner, peddling lemonade to uninterested pedestrians, sent a chuckle bubbling up my throat.

Apparently, I laughed out loud, because "Anderson" was now looking at me like I was a lunatic.

"What are you laughing at, Audrey?"

I blinked. Then blinked again.

"Audrey?" I repeated, feeling personally attacked. "My name is Aubrey, thank you very much." I flashed him my best you-have-offended-my-entire-bloodline smile.

The barista didn't even flinch. "Likewise, Aubrey, my name is Emmet, not Anderson."

I stared at him.

He stared back, his deadpan expression unwavering.

"Huh." I cleared my throat, thoroughly embarrassed. "So... Emmet, huh?"

"So... Aubrey, huh?" he shot back, crossing his arms.

The sheer pettiness of it almost made me respect him. Almost.

I shifted, shoving my hands in my pockets. Anyway, I'll have the usual."

Emmet squinted at me. "You don't have a usual."

Damn. He was right.

I clicked my tongue, thinking quickly. "Then I'll have whatever Emma usually makes."

His expression soured instantly. "Of course you will."

I was about to respond with something equally sarcastic when he leaned on the counter, eyes narrowing. "So, tell me, Aubrey-who's-not-Audrey, why exactly do you come here every day?"

I blinked, caught off guard.

There it was. The million-dollar question.

I could lie. I could tell him I really liked their coffee. That I enjoyed the ambiance. That I—

"...The coffee's decent," I finally said.

Emmet's unimpressed stare told me he wasn't buying a single word.

"Uh-huh," he deadpanned. "You want that coffee to go, or would you rather sit here and keep pretending you're not hopelessly trying to run into Emma?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

As far as I was thrown off guard, I knew this was going to be fun.

I leaned against the counter, folding my arms as I fixed Emmet with a smug grin. "No, Emmet, you're wrong. You think my frequent visits are because of Emma? How could you be so wrong?" I shook my head dramatically, as if deeply disappointed in his lack of insight.

Emmet squinted at me, arms crossed, sizing me up like he was trying to decipher an overly complicated math equation. Then his expression shifted, a slow smirk creeping onto his face. "Wait... don't tell me." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "You have the hots for June?"

June? Who the hell was June?

I blinked. Emmet read my confusion immediately and groaned, rubbing his temples like he was dealing with a particularly dense customer. "Seriously? Don't tell me you don't know who June is. The girl who cracked your nose?"

Oh. Her.

Flashes of pain and embarrassment surfaced in my mind. A hard fist. A moment of shock. The crunch of my own damn nose. Good times.

Before I could defend myself, I smirked, deciding to turn the tables. "Emmet, I'm hurt. You really think I'm here for Emma or June?" I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice like I was about to reveal some scandalous secret. "I'm always here to see you, Emmet." I threw in a wink for extra effect.

Emmet visibly stiffened. For a glorious second, I saw the panic flicker in his eyes.

Then he let out a short laugh. "Oh yeah?" He leaned back against the counter, arms still crossed, his stance challenging. "You mean you're here to see Anderson?"

I groaned. "You're never letting that go, are you?"

"Not a chance, Audrey."

We locked eyes, neither of us backing down. A lesser man might have admitted defeat, but I was Aubrey Ardel. I didn't just play music—I played people.

And right now, I was playing Emmet.

One might wonder, why was I wasting my time in such a ridiculous conversation? The answer was simple: I wasn't.

I was scanning. Observing. Watching.

Because something about this café had been gnawing at me ever since I first stepped inside.

The rhythm was off.

First, there was Emma—an absolute mystery. Always conveniently out on urgent matters. I'd met a lot of busy people in my life, but never a barista who seemed to have more pressing business than a touring musician.

Then there was Emmet—who was, and I say this with all the respect in the world, absolutely terrible at making coffee. The man couldn't foam milk to save his life. How did he even land a job here?

And then, of course, there was June—the girl who had once rearranged my nose with surgical precision. I still had no idea what I'd done to deserve that, but what stood out was the way she carried herself. She was too cautious. In fact, all of the employees here were.

It was subtle, but I noticed it. A certain awareness in their movements, like they were always half-expecting something. A tension in the air that didn't belong in a simple café.

Suspicious?

Oh, absolutely.

And I was going to figure out exactly what the hell was going on.

But first...

I snapped my fingers in front of Emmet's face. "So, you making that coffee or what?"

He rolled his eyes but turned to the machine. "Sure, Audrey. One terrible coffee, coming right up."

I grinned. This was going to be interesting.

The coffee was absolutely fucking terrible.

I took one sip and immediately regretted every life choice that had led me to this moment.

It tasted like burnt regret and shattered dreams. Like someone had whispered the word "coffee" over a cup of boiled disappointment.

I barely stopped myself from hurling the cup across the room. A miracle, truly. Normally, I wouldn't have hesitated. But for some reason, I showed mercy—maybe because Emmet was watching me like I was a lab rat under observation, or maybe because I was just that impressed by how consistently bad he was at his job.

I set the cup down slowly, forcing a neutral expression. "You know, Emmet, I almost respect the sheer effort it takes to make something this vile."

He smirked. "It's a gift."

"You should return it."

Emmet let out a sharp laugh but didn't argue. Smart man.

But the terrible coffee wasn't the only thing bothering me.

Something about this place wasn't right.

I had been coming here for days, and yet not a single person had acknowledged who I was. Not even a double take. Not even a whispered, Hey, isn't that Aubrey Ardel?—a reaction I was very much used to. Either these people had zero clue, or they were damn good at pretending.

I didn't believe in coincidences, especially not ones this bizarre.

So I did what any rational, overly suspicious man would do.

I had Michael run a background check.

What he found only made things more suspicious.

This café wasn't new. It was old—so old that it had been out of business for twenty years. And then, just three days ago, out of nowhere, it was suddenly back.

No announcements. No promotions. No grand reopening event. Just boom—barely renovated, doors open, business as usual.

And yet, there was nothing usual about this place.

If the owner had been desperate for money, there would have been some attempt at marketing. A sign, a discount, a damn flyer. Something.

Instead, the employees here acted like they couldn't care less about how much money the place made. No one was trying to upsell. No one was rushing to serve customers. The whole vibe was...off.

And then there was the manager—Emma.

The supposed person in charge, yet she was never here.

I glanced around the café, scanning each worker with careful precision. Emmet, smug as ever, leaned against the counter. June—the girl who had once rearranged my nose—stood in the corner, eyes flicking toward the entrance like she was expecting someone to burst through the door at any moment.

They weren't just regular employees.

They were watching.

Waiting.

And I was going to figure out why.