Elian had always known how to spend money. He wore it like perfume, let it drip from his fingers like expensive champagne. After leaving Leonhart, his bank account swelled with hush money—a silent, final severance from the man he had seduced, used, and walked away from.
For a month, Elian lived like a minor celebrity. He stayed in the penthouse suite of a five-star hotel downtown, ordered rare wines, posted curated photos of himself lounging in silk robes beside breakfast trays he barely touched. He thought it would never end. That the thrill of freedom would sustain him longer than affection ever could.
But freedom cost more than he calculated.
Two months in, the money was thinning. Fast. A failed crypto tip. An impulsive art purchase. Designer clothes he couldn't return. He gambled on new lovers, hoping one might be rich and bored enough to replace Leonhart—but none of them stayed past breakfast.
He hadn't touched Leonhart's number. Not once. But every night, he opened the message thread. No cute texts. Just instructions, schedule reminders, hotel room numbers. Cold. Like Leonhart himself. Yet Elian read them like they meant something. Like he could decode care where there had been none.
On the 89th day since the contract ended, Elian found himself sitting in a cheap café, sunglasses hiding the circles under his eyes. He had ten dollars in his account and no plan. Pride had kept him afloat, but hunger gnawed at the edges of it.
He opened a job board and saw a listing for part-time work at a nearby café. He hesitated, then walked there in heels too expensive for his desperation.
The café was small, loud, and smelled like caramel syrup and burnt milk. As he stepped in, a tray of coffee cups came flying from the counter and slammed into his chest.
"Oh my god, I am so sorry!" said a sunny voice. A boy—young, bright-eyed, with flour on his cheek and an apron half-tied—stared at Elian in horror.
Elian hissed. The heat stung.
"Do you know how much this coat costs?"
The boy blinked. "You wore that in here?"
"You assaulted me."
"It was coffee, not a bat. But still—I'll clean it!"
Elian groaned and stepped back, assessing the damage. His silk sleeve was stained. His pride was bruised. The boy, still babbling apologies, handed him a stack of napkins.
"I'm Kevin," the boy said, smiling helplessly. "Again, really sorry. Let me make it up to you."
Elian narrowed his eyes. Something about that smile rubbed him the wrong way.
Too cheerful. Too pure.
Too easy to ruin.
"You owe me more than a sorry," Elian said coolly, dabbing at his sleeve.
Kevin blinked. "Are you asking me out or threatening me?"
Elian smirked. "Neither. I'm just deciding what you're good for."
The job interview never happened. But Elian would see Kevin again.
And next time, he wouldn't be wearing a stained coat.