chapter 2 lunch rush and life lessons

It was nearing noon, the hour of madness rush at the diner. Orders shot out of the kitchen in spurts of yellings, paper tickets fluttered on the metal rail, and the bell rang like an overcooked warning siren for frayed tempers. Elira navigated through the latticework of tables, her notepad stuffed into her apron, her feet a practiced shuffle to prevent slipping on dropped soda or kids' stray fries.

"Two specials and one mango float for Table Nine!" the cook bellowed, pushing the plates onto the pickup counter.

Elira nodded to the call, not even looking as she passed by Mariz once more. The grayer waitress's hair was already coming undone, curls escaping her bun like rusty wire.

Hope you had breakfast," Mariz grumbled to her in passing, eyes darting around the tables like a hawk on Red Bull. "Because lunch ain't in the cards today."

Elira let out a whirry laugh. "Who has time to eat?"

"Right," Mariz sighed.

A child at Table Three spilled a glass of orange juice just then. The juice flowed across the table like a creeping disaster. The mother frantically dabbed at it with paper napkins.

Elira grabbed a towel and dashed to their rescue.

“It’s alright, ma’am,” she said, her voice soft despite the clamor around them. “I’ve got it.”

She wiped the mess while assuring the child it wasn’t a big deal. The kid blinked at her, wide-eyed and curious.

“You smell like waffles,” he mumbled.

Elira smiled. “I guess I’ve been standing too close to the kitchen.”

As soon as the table was wiped and the family was resettled, she returned to the pickup counter to await additional orders.

Her phone vibrated in her apron pocket. She ignored it. Either another reminder that she hadn't paid a bill. Or worse—her landlord.

The Hungry Diner was running on flimsy fumes and frenetic energy. The fryer was moody, the coffee machine spat out angry hisses like a snake, and the air conditioner coughed louder than it cooled. But that was nothing compared to the tear and wear within Elira.

She'd worked here for about eight and a half months. What began as a stopgap job to "get back on her feet" had become an unwilling habit. The work just paid enough to keep her above water but not enough to save her from drifting under.

Her feet ached all the time. Her back hurt by dinnertime. Her dreams, if she still had any, had all been stuffed into the pockets of her apron—where they were nestled alongside broken pens and crumpled receipts.

And she still smiled.

She rolled her eyes. The poor kid was still too green to be jaded.

By one-thirty, the lunchtime crush was starting to thin out. The din receded a notch, like a storm about to subside.

Elira eventually let herself rest against the counter. Her blouse stuck to her back. Her ponytail sagged. She filled a glass with water, enjoying the handful of seconds of quiet.

"Table Six wants their check," Mariz hollered.

Of course.

With a sigh, Elira forced herself back to action.

---

prostituerte

By 2:10 p.m., the diner had returned to its workaday buzz. Tables were wiped down, the kitchen restocked for the evening rush, and a couple of sleep-deprived regulars sipped their coffee like it was oxygen.

Elira slipped into the staff room and retrieved her phone from her apron pocket. Four missed calls. All from her landlord.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the locker door. She had until Friday. That’s what he’d said last time. Friday, or you’re out.

Rent was two weeks overdue. Again.

She didn’t need a calculator to know her tips today wouldn’t cover even half.

Her hand trembled slightly as she scrolled through her messages. One stood out, a name she hadn’t seen in months: Ate Leni.

Leni Cruz: El, call me. It's Mama. She's getting worse.

Her stomach curled.

In the kitchen, the fryer beeped again and the cook swore under his breath.

By 4 o'clock, the diner was sparsely populated. A handful of stragglers and two old men sitting at a booth playing chess over lukewarm coffee.

Elira leaned back against the counter once more, automatically drying a mug. Her face in the chrome napkin dispenser seemed older than twenty-five.

A cough made her jump.

She spun—and stilled.

A man had just walked in. Not your typical diner clientele. His suit by itself likely cost more than her rent each month.

He appeared to have gotten lost from a high-rise boardroom into the world of grease and gravy.

Chiseled jaw, shaved, icy eyes. Each step he made seemed deliberate. In that he was accustomed to claiming rooms simply by being within them.

He halted just a few feet from her.

"I seek Elira Cruz," he stated.

His voice was low, crisp. Like a velvet-covered command.

She blinked. "That's me."

He looked at her a beat too long. Then held out a plain white envelope.

"I am Caelan Ferrer."

The name meant nothing to her—at first.

Then it struck. She'd read it in business pages, in one of those free newspapers customers left behind. Ferrer Holdings. Tech. Real estate. Investments. Ruthless.

“What’s this?” she asked, not taking the envelope.

“A proposal.”

Her brows knit together. “You tracked me down… for a proposal?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth opened to ask why, but he cut her off.

“You’ll want to read it.”

With that, he set the envelope on the counter and left. No goodbye. No glance back.

Just walked out like he hadn’t just dropped a potential bomb on her life.

Elira stood there, stunned.

Mariz appeared behind her, chewing gum like a slow drumbeat. “You know him?”

Elira shook her head. “Not even a little.”

“Looks rich,” Mariz said, then shrugged and walked away.

Elira stared at the envelope. Her heart thudded in her chest.

She didn’t know it yet, but that envelope would unravel everything she thought she knew—about herself, her past, and the man who just left.

She picked it up with trembling fingers.

That evening, after her shift had ended and she finally had some time to catch her breath, Elira sat in the break room, alone, tearing the envelope open.

The first sentence spun her head around:

"This is a formal proposal for a marriage of convenience."

She blinked. Reread it.

Her hands shook now. The letter outlined conditions—a year, no intimacy necessary, payment that would take care of her mother's doctor bills and then some.

And the signature at the bottom?

Caelan Ferrer.

Elira had no idea what sort of sick joke this was.

But something in his eyes when he spoke her name—it had been like he knew her. Like he was expecting it. Expecting her.