The orphanage I grew up in was small. We weren't packed in like sardines-there were just eleven of us. But even in that tiny group, I didn't exactly fit in. They all hated me, and I knew why. Nanny loved me a little more. Or maybe a lot more.
You might be wondering who Nanny is. She's the woman who ran the orphanage, the only one who cared if I ate, if I was warm, if I cried myself to sleep. She's always been my anchor. Now in her seventies, she still walks around like she's thirty, full of fire and sass, claiming she's stronger than me-and sometimes, I believe her. She's not just my guardian. She's my only family.
But now, the orphanage isn't really an orphanage anymore. Over the years, all the other kids were adopted. One by one, they left with new parents and shiny suitcases, and Nanny was always smiling for them. She wanted the best for each of us. Every time someone came for me, Nanny tried to convince me it was a good idea.
But I never went. I didn't want a new family. I already had mine.
So here we are. It's just Nanny and me in a house that once echoed with eleven children's laughter and footsteps. Quiet, but ours.
Until now.
I work at a café. Or... worked. It's called The Hideout-cute name, right? The kind of place where the floors are always a little sticky and the customers think they're entitled to a golden throne just because they bought a muffin. But it paid the bills-barely-and it gave me something to do other than worry about rent or Nanny's medicines.
That day, I was standing behind the counter, zoning out. You'd think cafés are full of energy, but when you're five hours into a shift with the smell of burnt espresso clinging to your hair, boredom creeps in like a bad song on repeat.
I started people-watching-my favorite kind of entertainment.
A man was staring at his coffee as if it had just whispered a secret. His brows were furrowed like he was trying to decipher ancient texts.
"Oldies are like this. You can't help," my conscience mumbled. I smirked.
Then there was this guy sitting two tables over. A plate full of pancakes, eggs, and bacon... untouched. His eyes were fixed on a blonde girl reapplying her lipstick like she was on a runway.
"Typical. Food in front of him, and he's drooling over lip gloss. Priorities."
A little kid sat in the corner, clapping his hands as his babyccino arrived, foam mustache already forming.
"At least someone's having a good day."
Then there was a man aggressively jabbing his fork into a perfectly layered chocolate cake I had made earlier that morning.
"Sir, that is a cake, not an enemy combatant."
I sighed. "If he doesn't murder it, how will he eat it?"
"Not my problem," I told myself.
But inside? Yeah, it hurt. I worked hard on that cake. My cakes were kind of my pride.
That's when she walked in.
Heels clacking. Sunglasses inside. That air of someone who thinks the world owes her a standing ovation. She marched up to the counter and said, "Hey there," in the most uninterested tone imaginable.
I blinked, snapping out of my mental commentary.
"Welcome to The Hideout, ma'am. What can I get you today?" I said, voice sweet and polite-the kind of tone that takes effort after six hours on your feet.
"Cappuccino," she snapped.
A pause. I stayed calm. "How many, ma'am?"
She leaned in, eyebrows raised like I'd just asked the most idiotic question ever. "Do you see anyone else with me? Are you dumb or what? Just bring it quickly. I don't have the whole day."
She turned on her heel and walked to a booth.
Bitch.
But professionalism first, murder fantasies later.
I made her cappuccino like I always do-creamy, velvety foam, perfect temperature, just the right bitterness. I placed it on her table with a smile. "Enjoy your coffee, ma'am."
She took a sip.
And spat it out.
"Ew! Do you even call this coffee? This tastes like shit."
I blinked. Excuse me?
"No, sweetheart," I thought. "Your sense of taste is what's trash."
Everyone loves my coffee. I've been told it's the only thing that wakes people up more than their alarms.
"Go and make another one," she barked.
I clenched my jaw. "Okay... I'm really sorry about that," I said, turning back toward the counter. I made a second one, carefully. Tasted it. Perfection.
I brought it over. "Here you go, ma'am."
She tasted it.
And spat it out again.
"You really don't know how to make a simple cappuccino?" she shouted. Heads turned. She stood up, red-faced, voice loud enough to drown out the jazz music in the background.
"Do you even do anything here, or do you just stand around staring at people? You're such a waste."
I stared at her, stunned. Anger boiled up in my chest.
"Excuse me?"
"Oh, so now this trash has a hearing problem too?" she sneered, stepping closer.
"Ma'am, I am respecting you because you are a customer, but you can't speak to me like that-"
She shoved me.
Hard.
That's it.
I saw the guy who butchered my cake earlier. The plate still had one last slice on it. Without thinking, I grabbed it and slammed it into her face.
Cream. Everywhere.
Gasps echoed. Her eyes widened.
"Now tell me, ma'am-who's trash?" I said with a polite smile.
She lunged at me, screaming, "YOU BITCH!!"
I grabbed her wrist, pinned it behind her. "Don't even try it. It's not my fault your taste buds are defective."
I shoved her forward and stepped back.
"AAHHH!!"
"WHAT is going on here?" came a voice from behind me.
My heart dropped.
The manager.
I turned slowly.
"She threw a cake at me!" the woman screamed, pointing at her frosting-coated face like it was a crime scene.
"Bella?" my manager asked, looking stunned.
"Sir, I didn't want to-but she-" I tried to explain.
"You can't treat customers this way," he snapped.
"She insulted me. She pushed me!"
"That doesn't justify your behavior," he said firmly.
"I lost control, but I-"
"You're fired."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"You heard me. Get out. Now."
He didn't even look at me again.
I felt numb. I grabbed my apron and bag, tears threatening to surface but refusing to fall. As I passed the woman, she smirked at me-victorious, smug, evil.
I paused.
You're fired now, right?
Good. Then we're not playing nice anymore.
I turned around, walked straight to her table, grabbed the fresh cappuccino sitting there, and poured it on her.
"Have a nice day, ma'am."
And with that, I walked out.
Behind me, I heard chaos-her shrieking, the manager apologizing. I kept walking, wind hitting my face like a slap back to reality.
When I got home, Nanny was on the couch, a paper in her trembling hands.
"Nanny?" I dropped to my knees in front of her and gently took it.
It was a legal notice.
"What the hell..."
"They want to turn this place into a hotel," she said, barely above a whisper. "My son... he gambled it away. It was the last thing I had, Bella."
Her eyes welled with tears. My heart shattered.
I hugged her tightly. "We'll figure something out, Nanny. I promise. I'll find us a place."
But I didn't say what I was really thinking.
I just lost my job.
We only have a week.
And I have no idea what I'm going to do.
But one thing's for sure:
I can't let her down.
---
APP STORE
GOOGLE PLAY
/0/83604/coverbig.jpg?v=f7760b193126c15b01909383c73fff86)
/0/74746/coverbig.jpg?v=0ad0111c208909272afa5d375acc8bed)
/0/75961/coverbig.jpg?v=4fd9f04e552842904d2483b9b77998ad)
/0/76678/coverbig.jpg?v=5ea8975ceaf7dcf80d7aafc1da3bcfcb)
/0/79381/coverbig.jpg?v=7c8987e7e01efe850df970e3ee26b466)
/0/53606/coverbig.jpg?v=d7753ab8e3ecce87ca6e0f9f04bd6f61)
/0/75694/coverbig.jpg?v=d0aa7fe2a4e908a68dc3eff0d0e8fbd8)
