CHAPTER 006 - Rome and the Frappuccino-soaked Turd

Rome had never laid eyes on Cayson Montemayor before. Oh, but she’d heard enough stories to last her several lifetimes, courtesy of her cousin Dudz. What she didn’t expect—what made her stomach drop like a busted elevator—was discovering that this was the rich suitor Precilla once fell head-over-heels for. The same man who, indirectly, had made Rome bury her own feelings for Precilla deep under lock and key… because back then, she knew Preci had feelings for him.

The Montemayors weren’t just rich. They were city-owns-half-the-map rich. Cayson’s grandmother—Mrs. Althea Montemayor, the family matriarch—owned the biggest, glitziest college in town, where all of Rome’s relatives seemed to work. As if that weren’t enough, the Montemayors also ran a transport empire that ferried half the town around. And with Cayson being the sole grandchild, the heir title might as well have been stamped on his forehead.

According to Dudz, who was now plodding through an accounting degree at Montemayor International Colleges (lucky him, scholarship kid), Cayson was a full-blooded orphan. His mother had died giving birth to him, and his father died in a car accident when Cayson was just ten. So naturally, with a fat inheritance and a face allegedly worth a million dollars, women flocked to him like moths to a flaming Ferrari.

Dudz had said that Cayson had just graduated from college in the States. Three times a year, he’d fly home, flash that charmer smile at his grandma, and spend the rest of the trip leaving a trail of broken hearts before skipping back across the Pacific. Precilla, unfortunately, had been one of those hearts—flattened and discarded like yesterday’s love letter.

Good thing she listened to Dudz’s endless basketball team gossip after all, Rome thought, because now she knew exactly how to hunt down the man who made Precilla cry.

She pedaled her bike like her life depended on it, heading for the sports complex where Dudz’s team usually practiced. But the courts were empty. Undeterred, she asked around, and when someone mentioned the team had gone out for snacks, she didn’t even need to ask where. There was only one place Dudz’s crew ever snacked— that coffee shop. The one with gold-trimmed menus, overpriced lattes, and an unspoken sign that said "poor people, kindly turn around".

Rome stomped on the pedals again and shot toward the shop. The moment she spotted the sleek storefront (or as she called it, Coffee-for-the-Rich), she didn’t bother braking properly—she jumped off her bike mid-roll and let it crash dramatically onto the curb. No time for grace.

She burst through the glass doors, eyes scanning the room like a bounty hunter. There, lounging on a long couch with the rest of the basketball crew, was Dudz. She strode toward them, jaw set.

Dudz squinted at her approach. “Rome? What the hell are you doing here?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her gaze flicked over the eight jersey-clad guys scattered around her cousin. She recognized all of them—they were locals, familiar faces from town.

All of them… except one.

Caligh Carson Montemayor.

The man she didn’t recognize, sitting like a lazy king in black muscle shirt and a messy man bun, had his eyebrows knitted together as he stared right back at her. One arm draped lazily over the back of the couch; the other cradled an enormous frappuccino mug that looked comically tiny in his massive hand. He was flanked on both sides like royalty holding court.

"Are you Caligh Carson Montemayor?" she demanded.

"You can call me Cayson," he replied flatly, face unchanging. "What do you need from me, kid?"

Kid? Her jaw clenched. I’m fourteen, you arrogant jerk! She glanced down—oh hell. In her rush, she hadn’t even checked her outfit. White tank top. Blue pajama pants. No bra. Nothing screamed adult confrontation like sleepwear and a flat chest.

Her cheeks burned, but she squared her shoulders and snapped her gaze back to him. “You have no right to hurt Precilla!”

His brow furrowed slightly at the name.

Dudz scrambled to his feet and tugged at her arm. "Rome, what are you blabbing about? Let’s go, come on—"

She yanked her arm free. Her temper was on a rocket ship now.

“Just because your family’s rolling in cash doesn’t mean you get to act like you own every woman in this town!” she fired, voice sharp as glass. “This isn’t your personal harem, prince charming. You don’t get to stomp on people’s hearts just because you feel like it!”

Cayson let out a long, tired breath and set his mug on the table. Slowly, he rose to his feet.

Rome blinked.

Was he always this tall? Was she shrinking? No—he was massive. A full six feet if he was an inch, broad-shouldered and solid as a brick wall. Her eyes flicked down to the muscles flexing in his arms and, against her better judgment, she swallowed hard.

Okay. Maybe punching him wasn’t the best idea. She liked her teeth intact.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why should I apologize to Precilla? As far as I remember, I did nothing wrong. I was clear with her.”

Her fists balled up. “You hurt her!”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why was she crying at my house? Precilla loved you, and even though it tore me apart, I stepped aside for her. And this is how you repay her? You just dump her and move on?”

“And who are you in her life?” His voice was calm, but there was a glint of curiosity in his eye.

Rome lifted her chin. Her voice didn’t even tremble. “I’m the one who actually loves her.”

For a split second, Cayson blinked, surprised. Then—he laughed. Loud, deep, and annoyingly good-natured. Her blood pressure spiked.

He was still shaking with laughter when he collapsed back into his seat. "You’re hilarious, kid. Shouldn’t you be happy we broke up? Now you’ve got another shot to woo her. Who knows? Maybe you’re the one she’s destined to be with, huh?" He flashed her a grin that made her want to slap it right off his smug face.

Dudz tugged at her arm again. "Rome, seriously, cut it out. Let’s go home. You didn’t even wash your face before running here, did you?"

She yanked her arm out of Dudz’s grip so fast she nearly dislocated his shoulder, then fired a glare at him that could’ve melted stainless steel. If looks could kill, Dudz would’ve been six feet under, embalmed, and wearing his Sunday suit. Her blood was boiling. No — it wasn’t just boiling — it was doing a full-on volcanic eruption, complete with lava flows and ash clouds. And she knew, deep down, if she didn’t rein herself in, she’d end up doing something spectacularly dumb like challenging Cayson to a fistfight in the middle of a coffee shop.

Which, frankly, would have been like bringing a pool noodle to a gunfight. She had as much chance of winning as a marshmallow in a bonfire.

Her eyes snapped back to Cayson, who was sitting there with the most irritating grin she’d ever seen — the kind of smirk that belonged on a man who had never lost at Monopoly, poker, or love. He oozed the smug confidence of someone who got out of speeding tickets just by winking. She squared her shoulders like a general on a battlefield, lifted her chin to the heavens, and fired her words like bullets.

“I’ve said what I came to say, Caligh Carson Montemayor. If you don’t have the spine to apologize for breaking her heart, then kindly do us all a favor and crawl back into whatever mansion you slithered out of. Don’t show your face again just to twist the knife deeper.”

With the kind of dramatic flair only a woman pushed to the edge could muster, she spun on her heel and marched away like a general storming off the field — fast, stiff-legged, and two seconds away from combusting. But she didn’t get far.

“Who’s that little rat?” Cayson called out, loud enough to make sure it echoed all the way to her ears.

“That’s my cousin,” Dudz replied, his voice casual, like they were talking about the weather. “She’s got a monster crush on Precilla, so cut her some slack, man.”

Behind her, Cayson’s laugh burst out — smooth and rich, the kind of laugh that made women swoon and men want to punch him in the teeth. “Don’t sweat it. That kid’s at the critical stage. Better keep a close eye before she shaves her head and joins a punk band. By the way, is that a she or a he?”

“Hell if I know,” Dudz chuckled. “Used to be a she, now she’s dead set on being a he. Anyway, I’ll rat her out to her parents. They’ll straighten her out.”

Another wicked, velvety chuckle from Cayson. “She looks pathetic. Tell her to snap out of her little daydream and move on.”

That. Was. It.

Her brain didn’t even have time to file paperwork for her next move. She was already stomping back toward them, adrenaline pumping so hard it might’ve set off a Richter scale. She marched up to their table like an avenging angel with zero patience, grabbed the nearest object (a tall, frosty mug of frappe), and in one smooth, cinematic motion, dumped the entire thing squarely over Cayson’s perfect, infuriating head.

The café gasped in unison like an audience at a soap opera’s juiciest plot twist. Someone in the back let out a long, dramatic "OHHHHHH!" worthy of a basketball court showdown. She barely noticed. All she could see was Cayson, frozen mid-smirk, drenched from forehead to lap in whipped cream, caramel drizzle, and icy coffee.

His perfectly styled hair flopped over one eye like a dead squirrel. His jaw locked so hard she swore she saw sparks fly off his molars.

And then, finally, she noticed her surroundings — every customer in the coffee shop had dropped what they were doing. Laptops were abandoned. Coffees sat untouched. Even the barista had stopped mid-syrup pump.

Half the crowd was suppressing laughter behind their hands.

A group of teenage boys near the window were gleefully chanting, “FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” like they’d just scored front-row seats to a boxing match.

She snapped her gaze back to Cayson — her mouth already loading the next insult — when suddenly Dudz, in full damage control mode, lunged forward and yanked her away by the arm. He half-dragged, half-shoved her out of the café like a bouncer escorting an unruly rock star.

Out on the sidewalk, he spun on her and exploded. “What the actual hell was that, Rosenda?!”

His eyes were so wide they practically eclipsed the rest of his face. If steam could shoot out of someone’s ears, Dudz would’ve been a cartoon character by now.

“You’ve absolutely lost it this time—”

“Your friend’s a flaming jackass, Dudz!” she barked back, cheeks red hot and fists clenched like she was ready to spar with God Himself. “Just because he’s got money pouring out of his pores doesn’t mean he gets to mock and stomp on people like me! He broke Precilla’s heart and, for all we know, every other woman in a twenty-mile radius!”

“That’s none of your damn business!” Dudz threw his hands in the air like a referee about to eject her from a game. “And no matter how self-righteous you think you are, what you did was still wrong! When your parents hear about this, what do you think they’ll do? Throw you a parade?!”

She shoved him back, breathing hard. “Oh, go ahead and tell them! Snitch away! That’s your favorite sport anyway!”

“You’re damn right I’ll tell them — maybe it’ll finally knock some sense into you!” He lunged for her arm again. “Unless you’d rather go back in there and apologize to Cayson, right now—”

She whipped her arm out of his grip so forcefully she nearly spun like a ballerina.

“Over my dead body! I’m not apologizing to that arrogant, frappuccino-soaked turd!”

Before Dudz could react, she sprinted off like a track star on caffeine, practically leaping onto her bike. Without a single backward glance, she gunned the engine and tore down the road, tires screeching, ponytail flying like a war banner.