The Aftertaste of Humiliation

Amara’s POV

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Even after Damian Cruz stormed out of the café, leaving a trail of whispers and judgmental stares behind him, my body buzzed with leftover humiliation. The memory of his eyes on me—cold, sharp, merciless—burned hotter than the coffee that had ruined his suit.

I pressed my palms against the counter, trying to steady myself, but my stomach kept twisting into tighter knots. Every nerve in my body screamed you’re doomed.

“Amara.” Mia’s voice was gentle, like she was trying not to spook me. She set a clean towel by my elbow. “Breathe.”

“Breathe?” I choked out, my voice breaking on the word. “I just baptized a billionaire with coffee, Mia. How the hell am I supposed to breathe?”

Her lips pressed together, torn between sympathy and laughter she was too smart to let out. “Okay, fair point. But honestly, I can’t believe you talked back to him. Damian Cruz. Do you even know who that is?”

I threw my hands up, heat rushing into my face all over again. “Some guy with too much money and zero patience?”

Mia leaned in, lowering her voice even though the café had settled back into its usual hum. People sipped lattes like nothing catastrophic had just happened, but I swore I could still feel their stares.

“He’s not just ‘some guy.’ He’s… everything. Cruz Holdings owns almost every skyscraper in this city. Hotels, shipping companies, tech firms—you name it. His family practically built half the skyline.”

I swallowed hard. Of course, I’d heard the name Cruz Holdings. Anyone who had eyes or ears in this city had. But never—not once—had I connected the empire to him. The arrogant stranger whose suit I had destroyed in front of a room full of witnesses.

“And he’s cold,” Mia added, her eyes flicking to the door as if Damian might storm back in for round two. “People say he ruins lives with a single phone call. One bad impression and you’re finished.”

Finished.

My knees went weak at the word. Because if that was true, then what did that mean for me? A broke student with one part-time job, a mountain of student loans, and an internship interview that could make or break my future?

I tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out hollow, bitter. “Guess I’ll add him to the list of people who hate me.”

“Amara—”

“I’m fine.” I forced a smile I didn’t feel. “It’s not like I’ll ever see him again.”

But deep down, I wasn’t so sure. The way he’d said Remember my face—it hadn’t been a threat. It had been a promise.

---

That night, I sat at my tiny desk in my shoebox apartment, staring at the email I’d printed out for reassurance. My apartment was the size of a closet, the paint peeling in the corners, a single flickering bulb overhead. The hum of my neighbor’s TV leaked through the thin wall, but I blocked it out.

My entire future was printed in black ink:

Congratulations, Ms. Amara Lopez. You have been shortlisted for the internship program at Cruz Holdings. Interview scheduled Monday, 10:00 AM.

I ran my fingers over the paper, my heart sinking. Of all companies in the city, it had to be his. Of all skyscrapers to climb, it had to be the one with his name etched in steel across the top.

I buried my face in my hands, groaning. “God really does hate me.”

“Relax,” I muttered to myself after a while, sitting up straighter. “It’s a big company. What are the odds you’ll run into him?”

But even as I tried to convince myself, his storm-gray eyes haunted me. His sneer. His voice, low and dangerous, wrapping around me like a warning.

And I had a sinking feeling my odds weren’t as good as I wanted them to be.

---

Damian’s POV

I should have forgotten her by now.

The moment I left that dingy café, I had a car waiting, a meeting lined up, a dozen calls to take. My assistant rattled off figures about mergers and stock prices while I shrugged out of my ruined jacket and tossed it onto the leather seat.

But instead of focusing on the numbers, I found myself staring at the stain spreading across my shirt. Coffee. Bitter, dark, and sharp—the same way her voice had sounded when she dared to challenge me.

Nobody talks to me like that. Not investors. Not employees. Not even the so-called friends who orbit my world because of what I can give them.

But she did.

That girl with trembling hands and fire in her eyes.

My driver asked if I wanted to head home for a change of clothes. I told him no. Clothes could be replaced. What I wanted… what I couldn’t shake… was her face.

And that annoyed me more than the ruined suit.

I didn’t believe in fate. I believed in control, in power, in numbers and contracts that bent people to my will. But the thought of her—the stranger with the stubborn mouth—kept tugging at me, refusing to let go.

Pathetic.

I leaned back in my seat, closing my eyes. I told myself she was a nobody. A clumsy barista who would disappear from my life as quickly as she appeared.

I would never see her again.

Or so I thought.

---

Amara’s POV

By Friday, I convinced myself it was just a nightmare I could laugh about someday. Maybe Damian Cruz had already forgotten me. Maybe he had a hundred other things on his plate and no time to waste on some broke college girl.

That fragile hope carried me into Monday morning as I straightened my only decent blazer, fixed my hair three times in the mirror, and whispered a dozen pep talks to myself before leaving my apartment.

My heart hammered all the way to the gleaming glass tower of Cruz Holdings.

The building soared into the sky, intimidating and magnificent, its mirrored surface catching the morning sun like it was taunting me. The lobby alone was bigger than my entire block, marble floors gleaming so brightly I could see my reflection—scuffed shoes and all. Employees in sleek suits moved with robotic precision, their eyes focused, their strides confident.

I clutched my portfolio tighter, my fingers damp with sweat. This was it. My chance to prove myself. My chance to escape the chaos of part-time jobs and overdue bills.

I told myself over and over: You’ll be fine. He won’t even be there. He doesn’t know your name. You’re invisible here.

But as the elevator climbed higher and higher, a chill spread down my spine.

Because deep down, I already knew the truth.

People like Damian Cruz didn’t forget faces.

And I had given him every reason to remember mine.