A CLASH OF WORLDS

Miles' POV

The bell over the door emitted its usual half-hearted jingle as I pushed it open. The scent of fresh bread and cinnamon hung heavy in the air, winding itself around the wooden beams of our little restaurant like an old, invisible friend. I reversed the "Closed" sign to "Open," though I wasn't sure that it made a significant amount of difference anymore.

It was early, not even 9 a.m., and only a handful of people came in — regulars for the most part. Old Mrs. Hadley from across the street who always ordered a cup of weak tea and half a muffin. Jamal, the art student from the university who sometimes played his guitar out front for tips. And a tired-looking nurse named Danielle who worked the night shift and stopped by for a coffee that was "strong enough to raise the dead."

I smiled tightly at all of them as they settled into their favorite spots.

The store was quiet — too quiet, but I wasn't surprised. Business had been even slower since Dad's heart attack. It was just me now, holding the fort. Me, the one-man army. Me, the college dropout. The Kaden family tradition balanced on my shoulders while I tried not to break under the pressure.

I moved behind the counter, wiping my hands on a cloth, tallying the till, double-checking the lock on the donation box under the counter. Every penny mattered these days. Rent from the event hall upstairs barely paid for repairs. And with Dad not here to sweet-talk suppliers and charm customers, the whole place was… thinner. Like a frayed thread just waiting to snap.

Then the air shifted.

The kind of shift you feel, like the barometric pressure dropping before a storm.

And then it did.

The front door slammed open with the violence that sent the little bell into a frantic, terrified ring.

I looked up — and it was like the world outside had opened up and spat out a scene from a goddamn mafia movie.

A tall, charcoal-suited individual entered, flanked by two others who were dressed in the same black. They smelled of money and trouble. The suits were too sleek, their shoes too polished, and their faces too expressionless.

And in the center of them — like some dark, moving god — was him.

Grayham Wilson.

I recognized him immediately. Who wouldn't? Billionaire CEO. Industry shark. Every business magazine's wet dream. He was everything I'd expected — tall, broad-shouldered, devastatingly handsome in a cruel, detached sort of way. Impeccably groomed dark hair, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes like frozen steel. The man looked like he'd never had a bad day in his life.

He didn't survey the room, didn't acknowledge anyone in the diner. 

He wasn't here to make chit-chat.

He was here for me.

His goons didn't speak either. One of them approached the counter, a fat envelope in his hand. He dropped it in front of me like it was a bomb.

It landed like one.

"What the hell is this?" I growled, my voice rough with surprise, already on edge.

The man didn’t answer. None of them did.

Grayham finally stepped forward, closing the distance between us with the ease of someone who always owned the room he was in. His presence was suffocating — like gravity itself bent toward him.

He spoke then, his voice low and sharp.

“Your 24 hours start now.”

I blinked, trying to process what I’d just heard. “I’m sorry, what?”

He presented a faint, humorless smile, as though all of this was somehow mildly annoying to him. "That letter is proof of ownership. This is Wilson Industries property. Always has been. You and your father have been… squatting."

I felt my gut twist, anger rising like bile. "We've been here for nearly thirty years. My father bought this place with everything he had. He built it up from nothing. We—" I gestured to the tables, the people still watching silently. "We built this for the people."

Grayham didn't flinch. Didn't soften.

He looked down at me the way you would at something on the sole of your shoe.

"And all of that doesn't change the fact that this property is rightfully mine."

He went for his phone, checked the time, then put it back in his jacket.

"You have one day to clear out. Then demolition begins."

I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails bit into my palms.

I was not going to let some entitled, heartless billionaire take this from us.

"No," I said, firm, my voice shaking slightly but loudly enough to carry throughout the room. "I'm not going anywhere. My dad—he's in the hospital because he worked himself sick trying to keep this place afloat. You think you can just waltz in here with your fancy suits and your bloody bodyguards and take what's left?"

He raised an eyebrow, as though I was a slightly bothersome fly buzzing in his ear.

"I don't think. I do. And as of now, this isn't your problem anymore. It's mine."

"You can't just kick us out—"

"I can. And I will."

I felt something break inside of me. The stress over the years, the medical bills, the student loan debt, the late nights spent cleaning this place until my hands hurt. The fear. The tiredness. The powerlessness.

I pounded my palm on the counter. "Go to hell."

That stopped him — for just a moment — and then that icy smirk returned.

"Until twenty-four hours," Grayham stated, turning on his heel and not awaiting a response. His men followed him, silent as phantoms, the heavy door thundering closed behind them.

The restaurant was quiet as a grave.

I was shaking.

Danielle, still holding her coffee, shot me a sympathetic look. "Miles…"

I ran a hand over my face. "What in hell just happened?"

No one had any explanation.

I grabbed the envelope, tore it open, and scanned the documents inside.

Property deeds. Records. Paper trails that led right back to Wilson Industries.

It was real.

It was happening.

And I could not even afford a lawyer, let alone a lawsuit with a billionaire.

I slammed the cash drawer closed and tore out of the restaurant, my heart pounding.

I didn't know where I was going — just needed air, needed space, needed to get away from the walls that suddenly appeared to be closing in on me.

I found myself on the third floor, in the tiny apartment Dad and I once shared. A tiny room barely big enough for the two of us. The very same apartment I had grown up in, where I had made birthday cakes in a faulty oven, where we'd sat and watched old movies on a second-hand couch.

I fell onto the sagging couch, gazing up at the discolored ceiling.

I pictured Dad lying in that hospital bed, heart barely beating, and how this was going to shatter him.

How we didn't have anything else.

How this shop was all we had left.

And now…

Now it was being taken by a man who'd never worked a day with his hands in his life.

I hated him.

I hated everything he stood for.

But I wasn't going down.

Not now. Not like this.