Caterina froze. For a fraction of a second, everything in her mind went blank—no calculation, no restraint, no careful control. Just instinct. And then she moved. Her arms wrapped around Luca, pulling herself against him with a force that surprised even her. The contact was sudden, firm, grounding—her hands pressing against his back as if she needed something solid to hold onto, something real in the middle of everything that had begun to spiral beyond her control. “I—thank you…” she whispered, her voice trembling, stripped of its usual composure. Luca went rigid. Completely still. “Caterina…” he said, his tone low, restrained. “You should—” But she didn’t let go. Not immediately. The moment stretched, suspended in a silence that felt heavier than anything they had said to each other. The faint scent of her shampoo lingered between them, clean and soft, and the thin fabric of her outfit did little to create distance. Luca turned his head slightly, jaw tightening as he forced

Peter leaned back in his chair, the sound of his laughter loud enough to turn a few heads from nearby tables. It wasn’t amusement—it was mockery, thick and deliberate, the kind meant to humiliate. “You think you can negotiate with me?” he said, dragging out the words as if savoring them. “My family’s worth tens of millions.” His gaze dropped to Luca again, slow and dismissive. “You?” he added, curling his lip. “You’re dirt.” The insult hung in the air, sharp and ugly. Caterina’s fingers tightened slightly on her lap, but her voice, when she spoke, remained steady. “He’s my boss.” Peter snorted, leaning forward again, his grin widening into something crude. “Boss?” he repeated. “Oh, I get it now.” His eyes flicked between them, lingering in a way that made his meaning unmistakable. “He pays you to do whatever he wants, huh?” he said, his tone dripping with insinuation. The shift was immediate. Caterina’s composure didn’t break—but the flush that rose to her cheeks wasn’t fro

Peter stared at Luca. Not with arrogance. Not with mockery. But with something that hadn’t existed there before. Fear. It crept into his expression slowly, like a crack spreading through glass, subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. His earlier confidence had collapsed under the weight of what he had just witnessed—the effortless way a problem worth half a million dollars had disappeared with a single command. “You… you actually…” he stammered, his voice faltering. The words didn’t finish. They didn’t need to. He took a step back. A physical retreat, instinctive and unplanned, as if distance alone could create safety. “I’m sorry!” Peter blurted out suddenly, the shift so abrupt it bordered on desperate. “I didn’t know!” Caterina’s gaze flicked toward him, her expression unreadable, her posture still composed despite the dramatic change in his demeanor. Luca didn’t respond. He didn’t move. He simply watched. That silence—It pressed harder than any response could have. “I

Luca stood slowly, the movement unhurried, deliberate, as if the outcome of the conversation had already been decided long before Peter realized it himself. The chair legs made a faint scrape against the floor as he rose, but the sound seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet café. “Loyalty.” The single word came from Luca’s mouth without emphasis, yet it carried weight. Peter hesitated. His throat tightened slightly, his eyes flicking up to meet Luca’s, then away again as if avoiding something he wasn’t ready to face. “Or stay a loser,” Luca added casually. The tone was almost indifferent. Almost dismissive. And that made it worse. Peter’s jaw clenched. The insult wasn’t shouted. Wasn’t exaggerated. It was delivered as if it were a simple fact—something already proven, something undeniable. His pride, already strained from everything that had happened earlier, began to crack under the pressure of those words. “I…” Peter started, his voice faltering. He looked down

Peter remained in the café, still kneeling. The polished floor beneath him reflected faint fragments of the overhead lights, distorting his image into something broken, fragmented—much like how he felt in that moment. The hum of conversation had returned around him, but it no longer blended into the background in a neutral way. Now, it felt invasive. Eyes lingered. Voices lowered. Whispers spread. “Pathetic.” The word came from a nearby table, spoken just loud enough to be heard, yet not clearly directed at anyone in particular. But Peter knew. It was about him. “Look at that guy,” another voice added, followed by a short, dismissive chuckle. “What is he even doing?” “Total loser,” someone else muttered. The insults were quiet. Casual. But that made them worse. Peter’s jaw tightened. His fists clenched against his thighs, the tension in his hands building as he forced himself not to react outwardly. His posture remained low, grounded, but internally, his thoughts were anythi