Masked By Millions

“You learn a lot about people when they think you’re broke.”

Alec Blackwell adjusted his sleeves, the frayed cuffs of his thrift store button-down scratching lightly at his wrists. He leaned back in the creaky wooden chair of the downtown café and took a long sip of lukewarm coffee, the bitter taste grounding him in the character he’d created. No tailored suits, no Rolex, no black Escalade idling outside. Just Alec—supposedly broke, charming, and totally average.

He scanned the café with disinterest practiced to perfection. The air smelled of burnt espresso and cinnamon rolls that had been overbaked hours ago. His latest setup—Zara Lane—was ten minutes late. She hadn’t messaged, hadn’t called, and hadn’t canceled. That alone intrigued him.

Most women he matched with on the app weren’t late. They were early, dolled up, nervous. Eager to impress what they thought was a struggling writer-slash-freelancer trying to make it in the city. Zara had only messaged him twice—both times curt, direct, and zero emojis.

He liked that. It made the game more interesting.

The bell above the café door jingled sharply, and he turned to look—and immediately straightened in his seat.

She didn’t walk in. She strode. Black jeans hugging long legs, combat boots scuffed but laced tight, a red jacket zipped halfway up to reveal a simple white tank underneath. Her hair was a halo of curls—wild, untamed, unapologetic. Her eyes scanned the café like she owned it.

Alec smiled.

Zara Lane, in the flesh, looked exactly like the kind of woman who could set a man on fire without striking a match.

She spotted him and arched an eyebrow as if already unimpressed. “You Alec?”

He stood halfway, reaching for a handshake, but she dropped into the seat across from him before he could offer it.

“Was beginning to think you ghosted,” he said, trying for a lazy grin.

“I almost did,” she replied, crossing her legs. “Then I figured—what the hell. Free coffee.”

Alec chuckled. “Well, I’m glad you gave me the shot.”

She waved over a barista without asking, and when they approached, she ordered a tall iced water—no lemon, no sugar.

That tracks, he thought. Straightforward, low maintenance, sharp as a blade.

“So,” she said, eyes flicking to his shirt, then his watchless wrist, then back to his face. “What’s your deal? And skip the starving artist cliché. I’ve heard it. Dated it. Threw it out.”

His grin widened. God, she was fast.

“I freelance legal content,” he said smoothly. “It’s not glamorous, but it pays the rent—barely. I like keeping things simple.”

Her eyebrow arched again. “Right. So you choose to dress like an unpaid intern?”

Alec laughed. “Hey, these shoes have character.”

“They have holes,” she deadpanned. “But sure. Let’s call it ‘character.’”

He leaned forward. “You always this… straightforward?”

“Only when I’m bored.”

There it was. The poke. He liked her even more for it.

Zara reached into her bag and pulled out a phone buzzing with a dozen notifications, glancing at the screen, and then sliding it facedown on the table.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Influencer? PR? Life coach?”

She let out a laugh that sounded real. “Try three jobs. Makeup on weekends. Courier during the week. And I’m trying to finish my fashion line in between everything else.”

Alec blinked. “That’s… a lot.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t born with safety nets or backup plans. You hustle, or you drown.”

Something about the way she said it punched straight through his ribs.

He softened slightly, folding his hands. “That’s admirable, honestly.”

She tilted her head. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’re sitting there sipping your sad coffee, pretending you know something about struggle when your nails are too clean and your calluses are nonexistent.”

Alec flinched—just slightly. She was good. Too good.

He cleared his throat, trying to steer the conversation back. “You don’t think it’s possible for someone like me to have it rough?”

She stared at him for a beat, her fingers drumming the table. “I think guys like you wear poverty like a costume. Just enough scruff and storytelling to get sympathy and sex.”

Alec blinked.

Zara leaned in, her voice like ice wrapped in fire. “You ever actually skipped a meal to pay rent? Ever made it through a week on two bucks and pride? I don’t like liars. And I hate pity more.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the barista chose that exact moment to bring her water. Zara thanked them, then turned back to Alec, her expression unreadable.

“You wanted to meet me?” she said flatly. “Here I am.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said honestly. “I just thought—”

“That I’d be impressed?” she interrupted. “By this act? By the fake humble pie routine? Let me save you the trouble.”

Zara picked up the glass of ice water, held it for a beat, then without fanfare—tilted it over his head.

The entire café gasped.

Cold water soaked Alec’s face, shirt, and hair, sliding down his neck and chest. He blinked through droplets, speechless.

Zara stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Next time, try honesty,” she said, her voice calm and lethal. “Or don’t date women who see through your bullshit.”

And with that, she turned and walked out of the café, leaving puddles and stunned silence in her wake.

Alec sat there, dripping and stunned, then slowly reached for a napkin.

He should have been angry. Embarrassed. Insulted.

Instead, he laughed.

Softly. Genuinely.

“She’s perfect,” he murmured to himself.