The chilly air hits me as I go out onto the pavement, in stark contrast to the warmth of the café. I let it sting, enjoying the clarity it provided. The streets are alive and overflowing with activity, but I hardly notice. My thoughts are very loud.
I can't believe someone like that even exists. The egoism, the audacity—it was nearly absurd. What actually struck me was not his remarks. It was the expression in his eyes. He'd disregarded me as if I were just another nobody seeking to get access to his golden world.
I pull my coat tighter around me, letting the rhythm of my boots against the pavement draw out the memory of his smirk.
He wasn't wrong, not completely. I am hiding.
It's why I picked this café, this fake name. it's why I agreed to the blind date, even though every fiber of my being told me it was a terrible idea. I wanted to feel normal, if only for a night. I wanted to meet someone who didn't see Sophia Laurent, heiress to the Laurent empire, but just... me.
I stop in front of a bookstore, the glow of its window, pale and tense, the tiny charm on my bracelet catching the light. I touch it, feeling the smooth metal against my fingertips.
What was I thinking? That I could slip into the city unnoticed, play at being someone else, and escape everything?
I approach the window, my breath fogging the glass as I peer inside. Rows of books stretch across the cozy interior, their spines glinting faintly under the soft amber light. It's the kind of place that feels untouched by the chaos of the outside world—a sanctuary.
For a moment, I consider going inside. The thought of losing myself in pages of losing myself in pages of someone else's story is tempting, but the charm catches the light again, pulling me back.
What would my father think if he saw me now? His perfect daughter, standing on the sidewalk like a stray, clutching a trinket she's too afraid to let go of. His voice echoes in my mind, cold and clipped. Laurents don't run Sophia, We lead.
But I did run, didn't I? I ran the moment I stepped off the Laurent estate and onto a train bound for a city where no one knows my name.
The charm slips from my fingers as I push away from the window. I'm not here to wallow. I'm here to start over—or at least try.
I look at the time on my phone and realize it's later than I expected. My shift starts soon. If I don't hurry, Mr. Harris will complain about punctuality again, and I am not in the mood for his passive-aggressive reminders.
I slide my phone back into my pocket and accelerate my speed. The streets blur around me, and the noise of city life fades into the distance as I concentrate on the rhythm of my footsteps. Each step feels like a small rebellion against the world I left behind.
When I told my father I wanted to actually work, he scoffed. Not the friendly chuckle, but the one he gives in boardrooms when someone proposes a ridiculous proposal to which he refuses to respond.
"Why would you do something so pointless?" He asked, his voice rougher than normal. "You've got duties, Sophia. "A legacy to uphold."
A legacy. His favourite term. It's a leash masquerading as a purpose, and I've been struggling against it for years.
The bookstore fades behind me, leaving only the diner's familiar neon brightness. Harris's Diner isn't flashy—it's not even clean half the time—but it's authentic. The broken tiles, the cracked leather seats, and the faint odor of burnt coffee—none of it is polished or flawless. And that is precisely why I enjoy it.
As I push through the entrance, the overhead bell rings, signaling my arrival. The warmth of the diner wraps about me, as does the usual clatter of plates and quiet buzz of talk.
"You're late!" Harris calls from behind the counter, not looking up as he wipes a sticky spot from the register.
"By two minutes," I say, shrugging my coat off and putting it on the rack near the kitchen entrance.
"Two minutes turns into ten, and ten turns into me having to fire you." He grumbles, but his remarks lack impact. Harris is rough, yet he's all bark and no bite.
I tie my apron around my waist and take a step behind the counter to get the coffee pot. The warmth creeps into my hands as I approach the booths, refilling glasses and exchanging short pleasantries with the regulars.
It's dull, repetitious, and a far cry from the flashy gala dinners and power plays in which my father thrives. And yet, for the first time in my life, I feel like I'm doing something meaningful.
By the time the dinner rush has subsided, my thoughts return to the café, the blind date, and him.
I recreate the event in my mind, his pointed glare and bored drawl in his words. "We both know why you're here."
He was mistaken about many things, but not all. I'm running. I'm fleeing from a life in which every step is scripted and I'm little more than a pawn in my father's empire. But I'm not just running away. I'm running to something, even if I'm not sure what it is yet.
The bell rings again, and I look up out of habit, anticipating another regular. Instead, I freeze.
That's him.