one complaint

Morning came too fast. Kyrie barely had time to shake off her exhaustion before Mandy shoved her out the door, practically forcing her into Sebastián's waiting car. "Not a morning person, huh?" Sebastián smirked as she slid into the passenger seat, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.

Kyrie glared at him. "I was ambushed."

"By Mandy?"

"Who else?"

He laughed, shifting into drive. "Gotta love her."

She didn't respond, too busy adjusting her wrinkled blazer.

Sebastián raised an eyebrow. "You always wear that?"

She frowned, looking down. "my uniform hasn't dried yet."

"I know. Just... you look like you're about to fight a war."

She rolled her eyes. "That's what working at the café feels like."

Sebastián chuckled. "Fair enough. First days are always disasters. If you survived yesterday, you'll survive anything."

She leaned against the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of gray . The words settled into her like a promise she wasn't sure she could keep.

By the time they reached the café, Kyrie had found her rhythm. She moved through the morning rush with the efficiency of someone who'd spent years making herself useful, years of being seen only when she was working. She wiped tables that didn't need wiping, refilled sugar bowls with precision, learned the espresso machine's moods by listening to its hiss.

David noticed.

He passed her twice without comment, then stopped at the counter where she was restocking napkins.

"Better," he said quietly. A word that cost him nothing and gave her everything. She nodded, not trusting her voice, and kept working. Kyrie felt it before she understood it. The baristas stood straighter, their movements choreographed, efficient. The manager emerged from the back wearing a tie he usually saved for health inspections. Conversations dropped to murmurs, then to silence, then to the kind of whispered tension that preceded bad weather.

"Mr. Reynolds is here," someone said, and the name traveled through the room like electricity through water. Kyrie looked up from the counter where she was wiping steam wands. He sat in the VIP area. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar. His hair fell with the casualness of someone who paid a lot of money to look like they didn't care. He smiled at a waitress, and she blushed like he'd handed her a diamond.

"Who is that?" Kyrie asked the barista beside her.

The girl looked at her like she'd asked what water was. "Lucian Reynolds."

"Don't speak to him," David said suddenly, appearing behind her. His voice was low, urgent, nothing like the tired authority from yesterday. "Don't bother him. Don't even look at him."

Kyrie blinked. "I wasn't..."

"Whatever happens," David's eyes locked onto hers, and she saw something she hadn't seen before. Fear. "You stay away from that table. Understood?"

She nodded, though she didn't understand. It happened an hour later. Lucian stood, gathering his papers, checking his phone with the impatience of someone whose time was worth more than the building around him. He spoke to his assistant a woman in heels that clicked like gunshots then turned toward the door. "Damn it," the assistant muttered, loud enough to carry. "He left the contracts. The merger documents."

David heard. Everyone heard. The assistant's phone buzzed. She answered, listened, then turned to David with the expression of someone about to deliver very bad news. "Mr. Reynolds needs these delivered to Reynolds Headquarters immediately. He's in a meeting in forty minutes. No one can get there in time."

The staff exchanged glances. The woman with the septum ring suddenly needed to check the stockroom. The waitress who'd blushed at Lucian's smile now studied her shoes.

"Someone needs to go," the assistant said, and her voice made it clear this wasn't a request. Nobody moved. Kyrie looked at the documents, bound, stamped with seals that probably cost more than her shoes. She looked at David, whose face had gone pale. She looked at the door where Lucian had disappeared, the man who hadn't seen her, who didn't know she existed, who was about to miss a meeting because nobody in this café was willing to risk his displeasure.

"I'll go," she said.

The assistant looked at her. Assessed her. The vintage blazer, the beret, the round glasses. Something flickered in her expression, calculation. The math of desperation.

"Fine," she said, thrusting the documents into Kyrie's hands. "Forty minutes. Reynolds Headquarters. Don't be late." Kyrie had never seen a building like Reynolds Headquarters. It rose from the city like a blade from a wound, glass and steel reflecting the sky until it seemed to disappear into it. The lobby was a cathedral of marble and light, security guards in suits that cost more than her suitcase, elevators that whispered rather than dinged. She felt, for the first time since arriving in the city, like she had in her father's house. Like a trespasser in a world that would punish her for existing in it.

The receptionist looked at her clothes the way the clothing store manager had. The security guard looked at her the way the baristas had. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime that sounded like a judgment.

She found the floor. Found the conference room. Found the door with a nameplate that read Lucian Reynolds, VP of Development.

She knocked.

"Come in."

He sat behind a desk the size of a small boat, phone to his ear, laptop open, the picture of a man who conducted three conversations simultaneously because one was never enough. He didn't look up when she entered.

"Contracts," she said, her voice smaller than she wanted. "From the café."

He held out his hand, still talking, still typing, still existing in a dimension where she was less than furniture. She placed the documents in his palm.

He glanced at them. Signed where his assistant had flagged. Handed them back.

"Thank you," he said, but not to her. To the person on the phone. She stood there, suddenly unsure what to do. She'd expected... something. Acknowledgment. Gratitude. The basic currency of human interaction. But Lucian Reynolds had never learned that currency. He operated in a different economy entirely.

She turned to leave.

"Wait."

The word stopped her.He'd finally looked up. Really looked at her.

His gaze traveled down. The beret. The glasses. The vintage blazer that had been her grandmother's, or someone's grandmother's, purchased at a church rummage sale for three dollars. He smiled. "Interesting," he said quietly.

His assistant laughed from the corner, a sharp sound that had been waiting for permission. Lucian's smile faded, replaced by something that looked almost like consideration. He leaned back in his chair, studying Kyrie the way a collector might study a strange insect. "Next time," he said, his voice gentle, almost apologetic, as if he were delivering bad news to someone who couldn't handle the truth directly. "Send someone presentable." He turned back to his phone. The assistant took the documents from Kyrie's frozen hands and guided her to the door with the efficiency of someone removing a problem. David got the call ten minutes after she returned. She knew it was bad from the way he looked at his phone, then at her, then back at his phone. The color drained from his face in stages, like a photograph developing in reverse.

"Yes, sir," he said into the receiver. "I understand. Yes. Of course. Immediately." He hung up.

The café had gone quiet again, that same electricity-in-water tension from this morning, but stronger now, charged with something that smelled like ozone and disaster. "Kyrie," David said, and his voice had changed. It held the same gentleness as Lucian's, the same apology for delivering something she couldn't handle. "I'm sorry."

Her stomach dropped. "Sorry for what?"

"One complaint from him costs more than your yearly salary. More than this café makes in a month." David's hands were shaking, she realized. The man who'd been kind to her, who'd given her a chance, who'd said better yesterday, was shaking. "Professional image. Customer discomfort. Embarrassing appearance. Those were the words they used."

"Embarrassing?" Kyrie whispered. "I just delivered papers. I didn't..."

"I know." David's voice cracked. "I know you didn't. But he..." He stopped, the sentence too dangerous to finish. "I'm sorry. I have to let you go."

He pressed money into her hand. One hundred and fifty dollars. Crisp, new, the kind of bills that came from banks rather than pockets. "Take this. I'm sorry."

He turned away before she could respond, before she could argue, before she could beg.

She stood in the center of the room, the money crumpling in her fist, and felt the same thing she'd felt in her father's doorway. She didn't know how long she stood there. Long enough for David to disappear into the back and not come out. She walked outside.

She found a bench, sat down, and let the tears come. Not loud, not dramatic. The quiet kind that lived in the throat, the kind her father had taught her to swallow because crying meant weakness and weakness meant punishment.

She didn't care anymore.

"Rough day?" She looked up. Sebastián stood beside the bench, a paper bag in one hand, two coffee cups in the other. He wasn't smiling. He looked like he'd been looking for her. "How did you..."

"I came for lunch," he said, sitting beside her, not touching, just present. "Saw you weren't there. Asked around." He held out one of the cups. "Black. No sugar. Figured you needed something bitter."

She took it, the warmth seeping into her palms, and felt another wave of tears threaten. Not because of the coffee. Because he'd noticed she was gone. "I got fired," she said, and the words tasted like ash. "I know."

"He didn't even look at me. Not really. I was just... nothing. A delivery girl in the wrong clothes." She laughed, broken, half-hysterical. "He said I wasn't presentable. Like I was a stain on his perfect world."

Sebastián was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Some people have never been told no. They don't know how to see people who don't serve them immediately." He sipped his coffee. "That's not about you. That's about a system that raised him to believe his discomfort is everyone else's emergency."

"Easy for you to say."

"Is it?" He looked at her then, and something in his expression made her pause. "I've been where you are. Not the same place. But the same feeling. Like the city is a game and nobody gave you the rules." She didn't know what to say. She sipped her coffee, bitter and hot, and let the silence settle between them like a blanket.

"Come on," he said, standing, offering his hand. "Let me drive you home." She took it.

The front door burst open with laughter, loud and carefree, as Mandy stumbled in, dragging along a guy who was just as flamboyant as he was fashionable. The scent of expensive cologne and alcohol followed them inside. "Girl, you won't believe what happened—" Mandy started, then froze when she spotted Kyrie on the couch, tear-streaked face, suitcase by the door, the crumpled 150 on the coffee table like a cruel joke.

"Wait. What the hell happened?"

Kyrie sniffed, looking away. "I'm leaving."

Mandy blinked, glancing at the suitcase before rounding the couch and dropping down beside her. "Excuse me?"

"The city isn't for me," Kyrie muttered, wiping at her eyes. "First, people judge me for how I dress, then I get fired for no reason. It's like I'm just... not meant to be here." She picked up the money and shoved it into Mandy's hands. "I know it's not much, but I hope it helps you somehow. You've already done too much for me."

Mandy stared at the money, then scoffed and smacked Kyrie on the arm. "Are you insane? You can't just give up like that!"

Kyrie flinched. Mandy crossed her arms. "When I first got here, I slept on the streets for two nights before I even got a job at the salon. Do you think I gave up? No! And neither will you."

The guy beside Mandy cleared his throat dramatically. "And if I may interrupt this little pity party," he said, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his perfectly manicured nails, "I might have a solution."

Kyrie turned to him hesitantly.

Mandy grinned. "Right! Kyrie, meet Jules—stylist, fashion icon, and professional life-saver."

Jules gave a playful bow. "Charmed." Then he leaned forward, examining Kyrie like she was a rare artifact. "Now, darling, I have a friend who manages an establishment—a very chic place with a bar, club, and restaurant all in one. They might be hiring a hostess. Interested?"

Kyrie's eyes widened. "You'd really do that for me?"

Jules gasped, pressing a hand to his chest.

"Sweetheart, of course! The city may be harsh, but not everyone here is an evil capitalist trying to ruin your life." Kyrie felt her throat tighten from something warm. A strange, unfamiliar feeling that maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as alone as she thought.

Mandy clapped her hands. "Alright then! But first, we need to fix what you're wearing."

Kyrie frowned. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"

Jules gave her a look. "Darling, that vintage nonsense belongs in a museum. If we're going out, you need to look hot."

Mandy grabbed the red dress from last night and tossed it at Kyrie. "Here. No beret, though."

Kyrie sighed but nodded. "Fine. But I'm keeping my glasses."

Jules flicked his wrist. "Deal. But one day, I will get you into contacts."

Kyrie laughed, shaking her head as she changed. When she stepped out, Jules let out a dramatic gasp. "My God, look at that body! Why are you hiding all this in rags?"

Mandy smirked. "She doesn't know she's hot. But she'll learn."

Jules winked. "If I were a fashion agent, I'd make you the most wanted model in the industry."

Kyrie rolled her eyes. "Me? A model? People would laugh before I even stepped on stage."

Jules huffed. "The only reason they'd laugh is because they'd be blinded by your radiance, darling."

Mandy slung an arm around Kyrie's shoulder. "See? This is the kind of energy you need in your life."

As they stepped outside, Mandy nudged Kyrie. "Should we ask Sebastián to drive us?"

Kyrie stiffened. "No way. He scares me."

Jules wiggled his brows. "Why does it sound like our little princess is on the market and someone's already in love?"

Kyrie groaned. "Not you too."

Jules and Mandy cackled as they headed off into the city. The club was louder than anything Kyrie had ever experienced. Mandy and Jules led her inside, straight to the bar. "Order shots," Mandy instructed. "We'll go talk to the manager."

Kyrie gulped. "Alone?"

"You'll be fine," Jules reassured her with a wink before they disappeared. Kyrie turned to the bartender, who raised a brow. "First time in a club?"

She hesitated. "That obvious?"

The bartender chuckled. "What can I get you?"

Kyrie had no idea.

He smirked. "First time drinking, too?"

She nodded.

"Rough day?"

She exhaled. "You have no idea."

"Then I've got just the thing." He poured three shots of tequila, sliding them toward her. "Something strong. But good." Kyrie eyed the first shot hesitantly before throwing it back. The burn made her cough, her face scrunching up. A guy sitting next to her laughed. "Cute. What do you say we take the party upstairs?"

Kyrie froze. the bartender cut in. "Back off, man. This one's not for you." Kyrie, determined not to embarrass herself, downed the second shot. Then the third. The room spun. "Restroom?" she slurred.

The bartender pointed. She slid off the stool and crashed into a hard, solid chest.

A familiar chest. Warm, expensive cologne wrapped around her senses as she tilted her head back. And there he was.

Lucian Reynolds.

Not the man from the office, professional and distant. This Lucian wore a black shirt unbuttoned to the chest, a watch that probably cost more than her father's house, and the same smile that had made the waitress blush. But now, looking down at her, the smile sharpened into something else.

"You," he said, and the word was a door closing. "The delivery girl."

"You got me fired," she slurred, poking a finger at his chest, the alcohol making her brave in ways sobriety never could. "You're evil. Why do you keep showing up everywhere?"

He looked at her finger, then at her face, then at the red dress that clung in places she'd never let anything cling before. His smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something," he said, his voice smooth as the tequila still burning in her throat. "Some people aren't meant for certain worlds. They keep bouncing back to where they belong." She took a step back, the words landing like his brother's dismissal, like her father's belt, like every door that had ever closed in her face.

She stumbled.

Before she could hit the ground, strong hands caught her waist from behind.

"Excuse my girlfriend," a voice cut in smoothly. "First time in a club. She's had a rough day."

Sebastián.

Before Kyrie could protest, he pulled her against him. "Come on, troublemaker," he murmured, leading her away. She looked back once.

Lucian stood there, watching them go. He raised his glass in a mock toast.

To the delivery girl who doesn't know her

They found Mandy and Jules, who took one look at her and sighed.

"First time drinking?" Jules asked.

Mandy shook her head. "Newborn deer."

Kyrie, still tipsy, grinned. "Did I get the job?!"

Mandy laughed. "Yes, you did."

She tried to jump in excitement only for Sebastián to tighten his hold, preventing her from falling.

"I got the..."

Then she puked on their feet. Jules groaned. "There goes our night."