You Can't Cry Over Spilled Coffee

Five years later,

Dressed in a pair of sleek Louis Vuitton high heels, her feet clicked against the polished marble floors of the luxurious hotel lobby. Her tailored brown skirt hugged her curves with sophisticated grace, while her cream silk blouse, soft and delicate, contrasted sharply with the commanding aura she projected. Her hair was pulled back in a neat, yet stylish bun, not a strand out of place, and her eyes, once filled with insecurity, now gleamed with purpose and authority.

Ruby Miller walked with the assured strides of a woman who knew exactly who she was — now the manager of one of New York's finest five-star hotels.

 As she made her way through the lobby, heads turned, and hushed whispers followed her. Hotel staff, from the concierge to the bellboys, stood a little straighter, nodding respectfully as she passed by.

 Guests, impressed by her presence, stole glances, some in awe of her sharp professionalism, others simply admiring the sheer power she exuded.

Ruby's transformation was more than just her appearance. She had rebuilt herself from the ground up. Now, she was a force to be reckoned with.

Her thoughts were interrupted as she neared the hotel's café, scanning the space with her keen, practiced eyes, making sure everything was in perfect order.

 A subtle smile tugged at her lips as she watched the guests enjoy their morning coffees and pastries. This hotel was her kingdom, and she had every intention of running it flawlessly.

But just as she was about to pass through the entrance to the cafe, she felt a sudden jolt. A hot, stinging sensation spread across her chest, and she gasped, the heat of the liquid hitting her like a shock.

"Oh no!" a deep, masculine voice said in alarm.

Ruby looked down, her cream blouse now stained with steaming hot coffee. The shock quickly gave way to fury as she raised her head, her sharp gaze zeroing in on the culprit. 

Before her stood a tall man, his sharp suit slightly askew, holding an empty coffee cup, his face a mix of surprise and recognition.

"I am so sorry," he said, grabbing napkins in a futile attempt to help her. His voice was smooth, but there was something familiar about it, something that tugged at the edges of Ruby's memory.

Her eyes flashed dangerously as she straightened up, brushing his hand away. 

"Watch where you're going!" she snapped, her voice icy. The coffee had already soaked into her blouse, and the embarrassment of the situation mixed with her mounting irritation.

"I'm really sorry," the man repeated, his brow furrowing as he looked at her more closely. His eyes lingered a little too long, and a flicker of recognition crossed his face. 

"Wait… Have we met before?"

Ruby's heart skipped a beat at the question, but she quickly squashed the feeling. 

She couldn't allow herself to get distracted, not here, not now. This man, with his tall frame, sharp jawline, and intense eyes, seemed vaguely familiar, but that didn't change the fact that he had just spilled scalding coffee all over her in the middle of her hotel.

"I doubt it," she said coldly, pulling herself up to her full height and taking a step back. "And even if we had, I wouldn't remember someone who clearly doesn't know how to carry a cup of coffee without creating a disaster."

The man's gaze lingered, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he was trying to place her face in his memory. Ruby could feel the weight of his stare, but she refused to meet it directly. Instead, she glanced at her blouse, a mixture of irritation and frustration gnawing at her.

"Listen, let me at least pay for the dry cleaning or—"

"I don't need anything from you," Ruby interrupted, her tone firm. 

"What I need is for you to learn how to hold a coffee cup better" She pulled a card from her pocket and handed it to a staff member nearby. 

"Have the concierge send my blouse to be cleaned immediately."

She turned away, her body still tense with anger. As she walked off, she couldn't shake the strange sensation that came over her. Something about him felt familiar, but she couldn't place it. The last thing she needed was some random man thinking he knew her. She had worked too hard to be distracted by ghosts from the past.

Arnold Aagaard stood there watching her walk away. His brows furrowed in deep thought, the lines of confusion settling on his usually composed face. 

He was certain he had seen her before, but where? Her fierce demeanor, her sharp eyes — something about her stirred memories that he couldn't quite grasp. The more he thought about it, the more unsettled he felt.

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[A/N]

thank you so much for reading this chapter. 

This book is going to be as fast paced as possible, I hope you have fun reading it.

xoxo, sober mistress.