Chapter 6- Breakfast with the Enemy

The café Arden brought her to, ironically, was the same one she almost passed out in just the day before.

That was Cassie's favorite cafe. She loved the warmth and soft chatter of early risers.

She was just like them, people with somewhere to go everyday. Now, she was jobless. Walking in with a pair of borrowed silk pajamas.

The little brass bell chimed as Arden pushed the door open for her, snapping her out of her reverie. He didn’t even ask if this was where she wanted to go, just stopped the car, said “out,” and she’d followed like a stray cat too tired to argue.

The smell hit her first — coffee and cinnamon and fresh bread. Normally, it would’ve been comforting. This morning, it just made her stomach twist with nerves.

She tugged the blanket-like cardigan he’d found in the backseat tighter around her, trying to look like someone who hadn’t been rescued off the street twelve hours ago.

Arden didn’t seem to notice the stares they got — or maybe he did, and just didn’t care. He walked in with the kind of quiet authority that made people move out of his way without realizing why. Cassie trailed behind felling invisible by association.

It was great, until she looked left and saw them.

Emily. Savannah. And Misty.

Her chest went cold.

Of all the cafés in the city, of course Misty would be here. Misty, with her perfect curls, flawless makeup, and that smug, diamond-bright smile. She’d always been the kind of woman who needed to be seen; loud laughter, glittering jewelry, perfume that announced her before she spoke.

Misty had spent her whole life wanting whatever Cassie had — her father’s affection, her friends, even her peace. And now, she’d taken the last thing that mattered: Cassie’s husband.

Cassie froze. She couldn’t let them see her like this. Messy hair, borrowed pajamas. Misty had always treated her like she didn’t belong.

The first time Cassie had heard the word “Bastard,” was from her stepmother, Bridgette when she was just six years old. Then Misty got accustomed to the word and parroted it every chance she got.

But never in front of her father. To Payne, Misty was a saint, but Cassie knew better.

Arden noticed her shrinking behind him and arched a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Are you hiding from someone,” he asked, “or did you borrow money from the wrong person?”

Cassie gave a strangled laugh, more snicker than sound. “Something like that.”

Arden smiled, leaning back as he watched her sip her coffee, still trying to disappear. “Remind me not to lend you any.”

She didn't dare to look up. When she did, she caught it. A wedding ring the size of her head.

Cassie looked at her finger. She stared at the faint mark that indicated something was removed. Her wedding ring was barely even noticable. It was a steel piece of rubbish Trent had proposed with. He even repurposed it as a wedding ring.

Bile rose in her throat. For a heartbeat, Cassie thought she might vomit.

Arden turned back to her, brow furrowing. “What?”

She didn’t answer. She just grabbed his arm in desperation and whispered, “We can’t sit here.”

He looked down at the hand clutching his sleeve, then back at her face. Her eyes were wide and her pulse jumping visibly at her throat. He’d seen people afraid before; clients, witnesses, victims. This wasn’t fear.

It was humiliation.

“Why?” he asked quietly.

Cassie glanced toward the women again and almost whimpered. “Because my life’s a cosmic joke, and the punchline is sitting right over there.”

Arden followed her gaze, but from his angle, he couldn’t see their faces. Only the glossy hair, manicured nails, the type of laughter that sounded rehearsed. “Friends?” he guessed.

“Something like that,” she said tightly. “Please, can we sit somewhere. Anywhere, else?”

He didn’t ask again. He just signaled to the hostess and requested a booth by the window, one with his back to the rest of the café. Cassie slid in quickly, positioning herself so the high back of the booth shielded her. From here, she could just see Misty’s reflection in the hanging mirror across the room.

Arden watched her for a moment, silently. Then he picked up the menu. “You look like someone planning a heist.”

“I look like someone in pajamas in public,” she muttered, sinking lower. “Please tell me you have sunglasses I can borrow.”

He didn’t, but he smirked anyway. “You really think they’d recognize you like this?”

She shot him a look. “You don’t understand. They’d love to recognize me. Misty lives for moments like this.”

“Who’s Misty?”

“My step-sister,” Cassie said bitterly. “And the woman my husband cheated on me with.”

Arden paused mid-page, then slowly lowered the menu. His eyes lifted to hers.

“Ah,” he said finally. “That explains the dramatic flinching.”

“It’s not flinching,” she hissed. “It’s… strategic invisibility.”

He leaned back against the booth. “So, you were married.”

“Past tense,” she said. “Very past. He cheated, we divorced, she's marrying him, and now they’re… thriving. The end.”

He arched a brow. “You’re telling that story like it’s over.”

“It is over.”

“Then why do you look ready to crawl under the table?”

“Because I’m wearing silk pajamas, okay?!” she whisper-shouted. “They’re obviously designer, but not mine.”

Arden almost smiled. Not mockingly, but with quiet amusement that softened his entire face. “You’re oddly honest for someone trying to hide.”

She glared. “You’re oddly calm for someone dining with a walking catastrophe.”

Before he could answer, the waitress appeared — bright, perky, too observant. Arden ordered without looking at the menu. “Black coffee. No sugar. Breakfast sandwich on rye, extra egg.”

Cassie blinked. “You didn’t even look.”

“I always order the same thing.”

“Of course you do.”

The waitress turned to her. Cassie fumbled for the menu, trying to look normal. “Um… cappuccino. Double shot. And the breakfast sandwich too, but on a croissant. With cheese. And bacon. Please.”

As soon as the waitress left, Cassie groaned and pressed her hands to her face. “God, I can feel Misty breathing judgment from across the room.”

“Then stop looking,” Arden said mildly, reaching for his phone.

“I’m not looking.”

“You are.”

She peeked around him — and he caught her.

“You just peeked.”

“I didn’t peek.”

“You did,” he said, sipping his water. “You’re terrible at lying.”

Her jaw dropped. “You barely know me!”

“True. But I know what panic looks like.” He studied her for a moment, his voice quieting. “You’re shaking.”

She glanced down. Her hands were trembling, the nerves running riot under her skin. She curled them into fists. “I’m fine.”

“That’s your second lie.”

“Are you always this annoying?”

“Only before coffee,” he said, deadpan.

Her laugh was short, startled. It escaped before she could stop it. It felt foreign in her throat, fragile. She hadn’t laughed like that in months.

When their food arrived, Cassie realized just how hungry she was. She hadn’t eaten since—well, before she’d been dumped, nearly assaulted, and saved by the world’s most arrogant mystery man.

The sandwich was perfect — buttery croissant, melted cheese, crisp bacon, the yolk breaking in a slow, golden spill when she bit in. She tried to eat quietly, but hunger made her reckless.

Arden, meanwhile, ate like someone who’d never rushed a meal in his life — methodical, neat, precise. He sipped his coffee like it was a ritual. Strong, black, no sugar.

He glanced up after a few minutes and found himself… watching her.

Cassie wasn’t elegant about it — she had cheese on her lip, her hair was still a mess, and her eyes darted nervously toward the mirror every few seconds. But there was something real about her, something raw and unguarded that most people didn’t let him see.

He realized, with mild surprise, that he was smiling.

“What?” she asked, noticing his gaze.

“Nothing,” he said. Then, after a beat: “You eat like you have you?”

“I haven’t.”

Arden kept her talking until Misty and her pink-clad entourage finally left. Cassie hadn’t even noticed when they were gone — the clatter of heels, the echo of their laughter fading out the door. Typical Misty.

His brow furrowed slightly. “Why?”

Cassie hesitated. “Because grief isn’t very appetizing.”

He didn’t ask more. He just nodded once, then took another sip of coffee. But she caught it, the flicker of something like concern before he hid it again.

Then, just when she thought she could breathe again, Arden spoke casually, like he was discussing the weather.

“Come to the Silverwood×Murphy Magnolia wedding with me.”

Cassie froze. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You were invited?”

He nodded. “Business acquaintance. Plus one slot open.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “You’re asking me to be your plus one to that wedding? My ex-husband marrying my stepsister? Are you trying to taunt me, or are you just… recreationally cruel?”

Arden sighed, patient but firm. “You’re not seeing the picture. You’re clearly in a lot of trouble. Emotionally, maybe financially. Wouldn’t you like to show them you’ve moved on? Look good, show up, show out. Take back your power.”

Cassie scoffed. “No. Absolutely not. That’s pathetic. Going means I acknowledge them. And with a stranger? Please.”

He leaned back, mock-offended. “A stranger who saved your life and gave you a place to sleep. You slept in my bed and ate my food. You’re hurting my feelings.”

She blinked at him. “You have feelings?”

He placed a hand dramatically over his chest, lips curving into a pout. “Deep, fragile ones. You wound me.”

Cassie almost laughed — almost. No grown man should look that good while pouting. It wasn’t fair.

Instead, she stood abruptly, pushing her chair back. “I’m leaving.”

He didn’t move, didn’t even look surprised. “Of course you are.”

Cassie grabbed her purse, chin lifted in stubborn defiance.

As she turned to go, his hand brushed hers — warm, deliberate, grounding her in place for half a second.

“If you change your mind,” he said quietly, “you know where to find me.”

She hesitated. Just for a breath.

Then she pulled her hand free. “Don’t hold your breath.”