I landed a job at a corporate coffee chain to pay the bills.

Here, I wasn't a person—just an employee number on a plastic badge.


No need to appreciate the bright acidity of Colombian Huila or the jasmine notes in Yirgacheffe. No need to obsess over a tenth-degree shift in the roasting curve.

Just be a robot—memorize syrup ratios and follow the sacred operational manual to the letter.

Within a week, I could crank out three identical, tepid lattes per minute with a face as blank as the corporate mission statement.


Utterly soulless.

Products, not creations.


That weekend, I drew the short straw: coffee service for the executive boardroom upstairs.

The room towered over Manhattan with floor-to-ceiling windows that reduced the city to a toy model, yet inside felt as cold and sterile as a morgue.

I wheeled in the service cart, eyes down, invisible, placing cups before each executive like a ghost.

The air reeked of designer perfumes and power plays.

Then I saw him. Adrian.

He commanded the head of the table, with Selina glowing beside him like a trophy.

She wore Chanel, her blonde hair perfect, radiating the confidence of someone who's never been told "no." They whispered together, her laugh sparkling like expensive champagne.

His eyes passed over me without recognition—half a second of nothing. I was furniture to him, as relevant as the potted plant in the corner.

I finished silently and wheeled out, a perfect servant. As the heavy door swung shut behind me, Selina's laughter rang out like breaking glass.

Adrian's assistant intercepted me outside the locker room after my shift.

Her tailored suit screamed corporate efficiency. "Mr. Harrington would like a word," she said, all business.

She led me back to the same boardroom. Adrian stood alone at the window, watching the city lights flicker on like stars. None of those lights were for me.

"Adjusting well?" His voice cut through the empty room. "From business owner to serving girl?"

His casual tone, as if discussing the weather, cut deeper than any direct insult could.

"Mr. Harrington," I replied evenly, "we have nothing between us anymore. What's the point of this conversation?"

He laughed—a soft, mocking sound that dripped with condescension.

"Clean slate? Done with me?" He stalked toward me, Italian leather shoes clicking against marble like a countdown. "Clara, did you really think you get to decide when we're finished?"