Addicted to His Rejected Mate のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

[Sera] The service entrance of the Grandeur Hotel smells like industrial soap and someone's leftover cigarette break. I duck past two caterers arguing about shrimp platters and a security guard who doesn't even glance at my badge. Fair enough. Nobody looks twice at the girl in the slightly-too-big barista uniform carrying an espresso tamper like it's a weapon. That's me tonight. Sera Winters, emergency caffeine slinger for the Voss Group's Annual Charity Gala. My boss Riley hit me up an hour ago. Original barista bailed, desperate times, blah blah. High-society snobs usually turn up their noses at our little coffee joint, but desperation lowers standards. Riley couldn't swing it, so here I am, volunteering like a champ. Not for the cash, though let's be real, my bank account's a tragedy. Three gigs and I'm still dodging rent notices like they're bad exes. Checking my balance is basically inviting a panic attack. Not for the overtime bump either. Nice perk, sure. Maybe I could s

[Sera] "I didn't—I didn't do anything—" The words scrape out, raw and thin, barely audible over the pound of my heart. My free hand flutters uselessly at his wrist, not pulling, just holding on, because if I let go, I might fall apart completely. He doesn't buy it. His face twists, that perfect jaw locking like he's biting back something vicious. "That's not possible." His voice is a blade, precise and freezing. "I would never touch someone like you. Not sober. Not willingly." Someone like you. The words reduce me to a thing, a category. He doesn't remember. The thought crashes in. He doesn't remember the gold in his eyes, the way he held me like I was precious, the bite that still throbs on my neck like a second heartbeat. None of it. His gaze drops to the floor, snags on my crumpled uniform shirt. Recognition flickers, not the warm kind, not you're the one, but the sharp, disgusted kind that says you're the help who got too close. His hand releases my throat, not with c

[Sera] Six days since I threw his money back in his face. Six days of pulling double shifts, dodging my landlord's texts, and pretending the mark on my neck is just a really committed hickey that refuses to fade. It's darker now. Deeper red, the edges threading out like roots digging in. I stopped looking in mirrors three days ago. Denial is cheaper than therapy. Riley slides a fresh mug of black coffee across the counter, the good stuff she saves for when I look like roadkill. "You look like death. Again." "Charming." I wipe down the steam wand without meeting her eyes. The café's dead tonight. Full moon has the wolves tucked away doing whatever primal nonsense they do. Howling, shifting, eating their feelings. For me it's just another Tuesday. "I'm fine." "You've said that fourteen times this week. I counted." I almost smile. Almost. "Fifteen now." The grinder hums behind me, steady and familiar. Busy is good. Busy means I don't think about gold eyes or whispered promises

[Sera] "You look like shit." Riley's standing at the espresso machine, watching me wipe down the counter with the intensity of someone who's already diagnosed my entire medical history through vibes alone. The morning rush just ended, leaving the café in that blessed mid-morning lull where only a few stragglers nurse their drinks by the window. "Good morning to you too," I mutter. "I'm serious." She leans against the pastry case, arms crossed. "Didn't you rest yesterday? You look worse than you did before your day off." "Just didn't sleep well," I say, scrubbing a spot that's already clean. What I don't say: I spent most of the night sitting in my wrecked hallway with glass in my hair and an unconscious loan shark at my feet, waiting for someone to call the cops. Nobody did. Guess gunshot-level noise is just Tuesday in my building. I dragged the thug to the stairwell before dawn—couldn't leave a whole body outside my door—and duct-taped a garbage bag over the shattered wind

[Sera] The Voss Group headquarters looked like it was designed by someone who wanted to make poor people cry. Glass and steel stretching toward the sky like a middle finger to everyone who couldn't afford the view from the top. I'd walked past this building a hundred times during delivery shifts—seen it gleaming against the sunset, glowing like a beacon for the rich and powerful. Never once did I think I'd actually walk inside. Never thought I'd have to. I stood on the sidewalk in my nicest clothes—which is to say, my only shirt without visible patches and jeans that were merely faded instead of actively disintegrating. The business card felt like a lead weight in my pocket. Cream-colored paper, embossed logo, a direct number I'd stared at for six hours before finally calling. The conversation had lasted eleven seconds. I said my name. The voice on the other end said, "Tomorrow. Ten AM. Main lobby." Then the line went dead. My reflection in the polished glass doors looked l