The morning sun filtered through the sleek glass walls of The Gilded Quill, casting a warm glow over polished marble counters and minimalist decor. Ashley, now Mila Aster, stood at the threshold, her fingers curling around the strap of her simple canvas tote bag. She took a slow, steadying breath, her heart fluttering like a startled bird.
A man in a crisp navy suit, with warm brown eyes and a ready smile, stepped forward.
"Good morning. You must be Mila," he greeted, extending a hand.
"Yes. Mila Aster," she replied softly, her voice catching just slightly as she took his hand in a tentative shake.
"I'm Mr. Levan, the owner," he said, his tone kind but professional. "We're delighted to have you join us. Let me show you around."
The Gilded Quill buzzed with a quiet elegance: sleek espresso machines whirred softly, baristas moved in a practiced dance behind the counter, and the scent of freshly baked pastries mingled with the sharp aroma of coffee. Sunlight spilled across artfully arranged displays, framed photographs and small sculptures that spoke of refined tastes and curated luxury.
As they walked, Mr. Levan pointed out key details. "This is our main cafe area. We like to keep things calm and welcoming. No rush here. The art gallery section is over there, and we host small showings every weekend."
Ashley's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of wonder in her gaze. "It's beautiful," she murmured, almost to herself.
He offered a small smile. "I'm glad you think so. Now, let me introduce you to your mentor for the week, Miss Solis."
Miss Solis was a woman in her early thirties with a gentle smile and an efficient air. Her dark hair was twisted into a low bun, and she wore a soft cashmere cardigan that complemented her professional attire. "Hi, Mila," she said warmly. "Let's get you settled, shall we?"
Ashley nodded, grateful for the patient kindness in her tone. She followed Miss Solis behind the counter, watching every small movement. How to greet customers with a polite nod, how to carefully pour a latte with steady hands, how to use the sleek digital register without fumbling.
When Ashley hesitated over the touchscreen, Miss Solis didn't sigh or grow impatient. Instead, she leaned closer, her voice calm and encouraging.
"Don't worry, Mila. Take your time. You'll get the hang of it."
Ashley's shoulders loosened slightly. She offered a shy smile in return. "Thank you. I-I just don't want to make a mistake."
"You're doing fine. We all started somewhere," Miss Solis assured her.
—
By the afternoon, Ashley was beginning to find her rhythm. She had learned how to offer a warm greeting.
"Welcome to The Gilded Quill"
And how to gently attend to each customer on every order. Each successful interaction sent a quiet ripple of relief through her chest.
Her coworkers were equally welcoming. A young barista named Jude offered her a wink and a whispered, "Don't worry, everyone's nervous on their first day."
A woman arranging an art display paused to offer Ashley a small square of almond cake, a quiet token of camaraderie. "For energy," she said with a conspiratorial grin.
Ashley accepted it with a soft "thank you," marveling at how different this was from the cold, suspicious world she'd known before. Here, she was treated not as a burden, but as a new member of a family, however fleeting or fragile that might be.
—
Across the street, Lucien sat in the window of a small, nondescript cafe. He nursed a cup of black coffee, his posture relaxed but his pale blue eyes never straying far from the glowing doorway of The Gilded Quill.
From this vantage point, he watched Ashley's every move, how she shifted from nervous stiffness to small, careful smiles; how she kept her head slightly lowered but still met people's gazes with quiet politeness.
Lucien tapped a finger idly on the ceramic cup, his thoughts sharp behind the calm mask of his face. Every detail mattered: the way Ashley's hands trembled when she thought no one was looking, the slight furrow between her brows when she paused to steady herself.
He caught sight of her slipping behind the counter to help restock the glass display case, her small frame moving with quiet diligence. She was learning to blend in, to adapt. Damon would want to hear this. Just as Lucien lifted his phone to check the latest report, it buzzed with an encrypted tone, a direct line that only a few trusted contacts ever used.
He swiped the call open, his spine straightening instinctively.
"Lucien," came the cool voice on the other end. "The King has issued an immediate summons. Damon is needed back in the kingdom and there is no room for delay."
Lucien's brows drew together, the easy composure of his face tightening as he listened. "Understood," he said curtly, his tone clipped. "I'll inform him at once."
He ended the call, slipping the phone back into his coat pocket. His pale gaze swept once more over the woman inside who had no idea how precarious her place in the world truly was.
With fluid, practiced ease, Lucien rose, leaving a quiet tip on the table. He stepped out into the sunlit street, weaving through the midday bustle without drawing a single curious glance.
The black vehicle was parked just around the corner, its tinted windows shielding the interior from prying eyes. Lucien opened the door and slid inside, the soft scent of leather and cologne immediately enveloping him.
Damon sat in the backseat, his eyes shadowed beneath the sleek lines of his tailored jacket. His expression was calm, almost bored, but Lucien knew better.
"Report," Damon ordered quietly, his tone brooking no delay.
Lucien offered a precise nod. "She's adapting well. The manager and staff treat her with surprising kindness… likely a result of your prior arrangements. She shows no signs of suspicion, and she's already earning small gestures of trust.
Damon's lips curved faintly, a rare flicker of satisfaction that softened the harshness of his features. "Good. She needs to feel secure."
Lucien hesitated for half a breath. "But there's been a development. The King has summoned you directly. The High Council is moving against you, and there's no room for delay."
The faint smile vanished. Damon's jaw flexed, his fingers drumming lightly on the car door.
"Of course he would choose this moment," he muttered under his breath. He turned his gaze to the cityscape outside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the pavement. "I can't leave her unprotected."
"I'll remain here," Lucien said at once. "I'll continue to watch her, as you ordered. She won't be left vulnerable."
Damon's eyes met Lucien's, sharp and unwavering. "No missteps. If anything threatens her, you will act immediately. Do not wait for my command."
Lucien inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. "Understood, Your Highness."
With the decision made, Damon leaned back in his seat, his expression distant and cold once more. "Arrange the flight. Quietly," he said, his voice as smooth and implacable as ice. "I'll be gone by dawn."
Lucien nodded crisply. "It will be done."
As the car pulled away, the neon glow of The Gilded Quill flickered in Damon's peripheral vision, a fragile beacon in the gathering dusk. He watched it for a fleeting moment, his gaze lingering on that small bubble of light and warmth.
And then he turned away, eyes narrowing with the weight of his obligations, already bracing himself for the coming storm.