Jones walked into the restaurant, and the scent of fried chicken welcomed him immediately. He approached the counter, resting his hands on it.“Hey, man!” Lucas called, walking up to me with a bright smile and an apron tied around his waist. He pulled me into a warm hug. “How’re you doing?”I blinked, surprised to see him there. “I—I’m good… wait, what are you doing here?” I asked, still shocked.Lucas had been one of the guys from the company—a journalist like me.He shrugged with a grin. “Hmm… got a job here. Needed a change of scene. What about you?”“I came to see my brother,” I said just as Max appeared between us.“Max?” Lucas asked, brows raised.“Yeah,” I nodded. “He’s my brother.”Max gave him a short smirk. Lucas looked between the two of us, his expression tightening.“You got a problem with that?” Max asked.Lucas didn’t respond. He just turned and walked away, ignoring him.“Tss—dick,” Max muttered under his breath before turning to me with a grin. “I see you’re still ali

The air inside Aurex Development carried its usual mix of power and perfection — the cold gleam of marble floors, the faint tang of fresh polish, and the rhythmic footsteps of people who walked like time itself owed them respect.I drew in a breath, straightened my jacket, and nodded at the receptionist, who flashed her trademark bright smile.“Good morning, Miss Marie.”“Morning, Clara,” I replied, heading toward the elevator.The doors closed with a soft hiss, sealing me in. When they opened again, I found myself face-to-face with Melissa. My stomach tightened. I rolled my eyes, letting my disdain show — subtle but sharp.The elevator doors slid shut again, trapping us with our mirrored reflections. The silence between us hummed.Our eyes met — two polished masks staring back from glass, bound by blood and resentment.“Long time no see, sister,” Melissa said at last, her tone dripping with feigned sweetness.“Stepsister,” I corrected.“It doesn’t matter—”“It does matter.”Her smile

The meeting was over. I was now in the car, heading to the construction site. The hum of the city blurred past the windows, but my mind refused to settle. I couldn’t stop thinking about why Dad would invite Lewis to have lunch with us. First, it was me reviewing the design with him. Now, lunch?It felt suspiciously like one of those matchmaking lunches Dad loved to orchestrate — subtle hints, knowing smiles, and too many “coincidences.” If that was his plan, he was in for a surprise. Because this time, I might just walk out on him right in front of his guest. And as for Lewis, whatever fantasy he might have in his head about me, he should get rid of it — fast.Traffic crawled, horns blaring in the distance. I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently until the site finally came into view — cranes, scaffolding, dust, and the sharp scent of fresh cement. I parked near the temporary office and stepped out. The heavy clamor of machinery hit me immediately — metal grinding, engin

The soft aroma of burnt toast lingered in the air. I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as Marie poked uncertainly at the pan like it was a ticking bomb.“I swear it looked easier on YouTube,” she muttered, flipping what was supposed to be an omelet—only for it to tear clean in half.I chuckled. “You’re supposed to let it sit before flipping it.”She shot me a glare sharp enough to cut steel. “I am letting it sit. It’s just sitting in the wrong shape.”I pushed off the counter, stepping closer. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”“Do what?”“Cook. I know you’re not—”“Don’t say it,” she warned, waving the spatula at me like a sword. “I am perfectly capable of making breakfast. I’m just... perfecting my techniques.”I smiled, trying to hide my amusement, and reached past her to lower the heat. “Your technique's about to burn down the kitchen.”She huffed, but her lips curved upward. “Fine. Maybe I’ll let you handle it next time.”“Deal,” I said, taking the spatula fr

My head’s pounding like it’s been used for drum practice. The sunlight stabbing through the windshield isn’t helping either. I squint as I step out of the car and drag my feet toward Max’s restaurant.The bell above the door jingles — too loud for my liking.“Morning, Jones,” Max calls from behind the counter, flipping pancakes like his life depends on it.“Morning?” I mutter, rubbing my temples. “What’s so good about it?”He laughs, that deep, knowing laugh. “You look like hell. Rough night?”I drop onto the stool. “Something like that. Just give me the hangover soup. Extra spicy.”“Ah, heartbreak flavor,” he teases, setting a pot on the burner.I shoot him a look. “Didn’t say it was heartbreak.”“You didn’t have to,” he says, grinning. “You wear it like a badge.”I sigh, leaning back as the smell of broth fills the room. The soup’s simmering sound mixes with the clatter of utensils, and for a moment, I let myself drift. I see her — Marie — standing in her studio, paintbrush in hand,