4: Flower Duet

For a moment, time stood still. In my head, the Flower Duet from Lakmé was playing – the one we used to practice ballet to when I was younger.

Left foot behind me, carrying the weight; right foot in front of me, swirling to my left, rolling my shoulders, turning away from Marek.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t a ballerina’s spin. But it was enough to break his hold.

My wrist slipped free. I turned – heel, hip, shoulder – a little circle I’d learned in a studio with mirrors and taped floors, a lifetime ago.

Santiago was already there. Moving like a gracious dance partner, he stepped into my orbit - one hand catching my elbow, the other a firm bracket at my waist.

“Conmigo,” he breathed. With me.

He pulled – clean, decisive, yet gently – drawing me out of Marek’s reach.

Marek’s fingers clawed at the air and missed.

Santiago pulled me close. Cedar. Spice. Heat.

He looked me in the eyes, smiling softly, and for a second everything else vanished, and we were alone in the café. I felt pulled, like he was gravity itself. His lips, drawing me in.

“Ahora,” he murmured. Ana threw, and a white cloud came swirling across the room, landing on Marek’s hand mid-grab, kissing his knuckles and the web between thumb and forefinger. The sound – skin meeting steaming, hot milk – was a sharp violin scrape. Marek’s laugh snapped into a snarl.

He fumbled back, swearing in Polish, burned hand retreating, the other diving for the small knife at his belt. Santiago spun me around, placing me out of harm’s way, before moving through Marek like choreography, not combat. A step inside the reach, a turn of the wrist, and Marek’s blade-hand slammed the counter-edge – dropping the knife on impact which hit the floor with a bright, humiliating clatter. Santiago pinned him down with a victorious smile.

“No more moves, Marek.”

Marek tried to wrench loose. Wood creaked. His breath rasped. Santiago’s hand tightened on Marek’s.

“You brought a knife to a family’s café - if you want to leave with your bones intact, you apologize.”

“Apologize?” Marek tilted his head, scar pulling. “To a baker?” He switched to Polish – low, contemptuous.

“Zejdź mi z oczu.” Get out of my sight.

Santiago didn’t blink. ”You’ll apologize,” he repeated. ”To Ana.”

Marek spat a word I didn’t understand, trying to wrench free again.

The counter creaked, and I’m sure I heard something snap.

Pain flashed across his face.

“Try again,” Santiago said, still calm.

Marek looked at Ana, his cold eyes piercing her.

“Przepraszam.” His voice was flat.

”Buen chico,” Santiago said, taunting. Good boy. He released his grip, letting Marek retreat, clutching his broken hand with his burned.

“Morales,” he hissed through his teeth, anger seething through. “You’ll regret this.”

Santiago didn’t respond. He just flashed a devilish smile.

Then Marek’s eyes flicked to me, lingering at my dress like a promise he’d made to himself.

“Friday,” he said, his voice sent shivers down my spine. “Wear a red dress.”

He licked his coarse lips before turning to leave.

Something unpretty rose in me. “Bring a new hand,” I said, steady for once. “You’ll need it to knock.”

His back stiffened. Santiago’s laugh was a single, dangerous breath.

For a moment, I thought he’d turn around and spit something back.

But he chose to leave without further bruises and slipped into the rain.

Silence pooled in his wake. Santiago’s voice cut through, and the room remembered how to inhale again. “Ana,” Santiago’s voice was soft. “You did well.” The waitress didn’t look him in the eyes.

“I didn’t want her to get hurt…” Her voice trembled. She glanced at me, holding my gaze for a few seconds before retreating hastily.

“Javier,” Santiago turned his attention to the owner. “Maybe close for the day.”

Javier nodded once in respect. “Yes, Señor Morales.”

He flipped the wooden sign: CERRADO.

A wave of relief moved through the café as people stood up to leave. No complaints - just happy to go home. Javier smiled politely, mumbling “mis disculpas” again and again.

“Señorita?” The barista smiled warmly, handing me my cappuccino in a to-go cup – extra foam on top. I returned the smile, took the cup, and just stared at it in my hand.

I was overwhelmed, tired… and angry. You just happened to be out enjoying coffee on collecting day – coincidence? Or are you playing doorman for a simple baker? Marek’s voice replayed in my head.

I was leaning toward it not being a coincidence. I set the cappuccino down on the counter, turned, and walked toward the door.

“Mi ángel?” I heard the confusion in his voice, but I didn’t stop. I didn’t care.

The bell over the door chimed angrily, as I shoved it open and stormed out.

The cold air welcomed me outside - away from manipulation, threats, and womanizers. Away from him. My dress was still slightly damp. I shivered. At least the rain had ceased.

I folded my arms around myself for warmth – for comfort. Tears were welling. I just needed to –

A hand caught my shoulder and spun me around.

“Valerie,” his voice was low but urgent – maybe even scared. “Where are you going?”

“Away from you!” I almost shouted, my voice shaking, threatening to betray the tears I was hiding.

I turned to walk away again, but his hands gripped my arm, yanking me back, pulling me tighter.

“No!” I tried to push him away, beating my fists on his marbled chest. “Let me go, Santiago! You used me – you knew what was about to happen in that café, yet you still invited me into trouble.”

His grip didn’t loosen, no matter how hard I banged my fist at him, trying to break free from him.

“I invited you to coffee,” he said, voice calm. “The trouble follows me.”

“And you used me.” A single tear escaped. Dammit.

He studied me for a heartbeat. His hazel eyes burning like embers.

Then he kissed me.