The day I hung the "Permanently Closed" sign on Calm Breeze Cafe with my own hands was a still, overcast day.

The air in New York hung thick and oppressive, like a physical weight pressing down on Manhattan's skyline and my chest.


Adrian's final visit before I took the fall for Selina happened at the deep green wooden door of Calm Breeze—the one I'd painted with my own hands.

He stood there in his impeccable suit, every inch the corporate shark, completely at odds with my soon-to-be-ruined sanctuary behind me. His golden hair was slicked back with military precision, blue eyes cold as winter ice.

"I'll triple your financial compensation," he said, his voice businesslike and detached, "but Selina is different. She's a public figure—this scandal could destroy her career."


He paused, his gaze drifting past me to the cafe's interior—the corners I'd decorated myself, the vintage indie film posters, the worn leather barstools lining the counter.

"Just consider it a good deed, Clara. Once this blows over, I'll set you up with a brand new Calm Breeze in the best spot in Midtown."


"I don't need your charity!" I hissed through clenched teeth. I met his gaze head-on. "You once told me I was the only person who truly understood your coffee. What happened to that?"

Adrian's jaw tightened as he looked away, retreating into silence. After what felt like forever, he finally murmured, "I'll always remember your sacrifice."

Sacrifice. What a pretty word for destruction.

I signed the papers, officially accepting blame for all the health code violations I never committed.

Before surrendering the keys, I locked the door and held my own private "farewell" ceremony.

I grabbed a hammer and brought it down on his favorite pour-over set.

The crystal-clear shattering echoed through the empty cafe like a starting gun. Next came the cups, the plates, all those treasures I'd collected from Brooklyn flea markets and my travels abroad.

Porcelain shards exploded everywhere, a blizzard of broken dreams.

Adrian tracked me down later, grabbing my wrist with barely contained rage, demanding to know why I'd destroyed his precious cups.

Those cups were birthday gifts I'd handcrafted after driving upstate to rent a kiln, where I'd spent three sleepless days and nights perfecting them.

I stared at him, struck by the absurdity of it all.

He'd tossed aside a living, breathing person without a second thought, yet here he was, mourning some damn cups.

"Don't worry, Adrian," I wrenched my hand free, spitting each word, "I won't let anything I've poured my soul into be tainted by you. Whatever we had—my mistake. Consider us done."