Chapter 5 A Chance, A Loss, A Lookalike

Annabelle sighed. This guy clearly wasn't going to back down. Whether he was genuinely interested or just another arrogant rich man looking for a fling, she couldn't tell. She folded her arms, thinking of the fastest way to end the interaction.

Then she had an idea.

Her eyes met his directly. "Fine, Mr. Tristan. You can become my friend... if you give me your order."

Tristan chuckled, leaning back triumphantly. "Progress! Great. Now... what about your number?"

Anabelle smirked. "You'll get it-after you give me your order."

Tristan leaned forward again, teasing. "Alright. I'll trust you with this one. You choose for me. Surprise me."

Anabelle blinked. Seriously? After all that, he still wasn't going to make a decision?

Suppressing her irritation, she gave a half-mocking bow. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

She walked away, shaking her head. He was charming, sure-but exhausting. Still, she couldn't afford a bad review from a guy who clearly had money and influence. In the kitchen, she picked their highest-rated dishes, arranged everything herself, and handed the tray to a male steward.

"You serve him," she said, wiping her hands. "And tell him I'm busy."

Two days passed.

It was Monday morning, and Anabelle was back in the restaurant kitchen when her colleague, Rolly, walked in grinning from ear to ear.

"Hey Bella!" Chioma chirped. "So you've been forming 'not interested in a relationship,' huh?"

Anabelle rolled her eyes without even turning. "And that's your Monday greeting? Try again."

Chioma walked in, waving a fancy bouquet of roses and a gold-rimmed box. "Oh really? Then explain this."

Anabelle paused, then turned. The flowers were pristine. The chocolates, clearly imported. She took the card from Chioma and read:

"You probably don't want to see me again, but I just wanted to thank you for the delicious meal. If there's any chance-no matter how small-you'd like to see me again, I'm sitting at table D4.

Yours sincerely,

Your five-minute friend,

Tristan."

Anabelle sighed.

How did he even find me? Their company had dozens of branches. She was one of the top chefs chosen to cater at the weekend wedding. He must've really gone digging.

She brought the flowers close to her nose. Damn. They smelled heavenly. The chocolates-expensive. She could tell from both the wrapping and the smooth taste after nibbling one.

Chioma gave her a sly look. "So... who's the mystery man?"

"Just a customer," Anabelle muttered. "Want some chocolate?"

She dropped the bouquet and resumed chopping onions. But as she worked, her conscience gnawed at her.

He didn't have to do all this.

Eventually, she wiped her hands and walked out to Table D4. Empty.

She stepped outside to check the lot-no one. She sighed and returned to the kitchen.

Meanwhile, Tristan had been obsessing about her the entire weekend.

Why can't I stop thinking about her? he asked himself again as he stared at the ceiling of his penthouse.

She hadn't even served him herself. Maybe she didn't like him. Maybe he came on too strong. But something about her-the calmness, the voice, the way she dismissed him-got to him.

Luckily, he'd acted fast.

He'd slipped the male steward a wad of cash for her work address and phone number. "As my dad always says," Tristan murmured, "money won't buy you happiness, but it can pave a smooth road toward it."

He sent the flowers and chocolates with a hopeful heart.

But after thirty minutes passed without a word, he sighed, disappointed.

She doesn't want to see me.

That was fine. He'd tried.

He returned to his office and buried himself in his work, just to avoid thinking about her. Late that afternoon, his phone buzzed.

Unknown Number.

He picked up. "Hello, this is Tristan. Who's speaking?"

There was a pause.

Then, "Hey, Tristan. It's... Anabelle."

His heart skipped.

He shot up from his seat. "Anabelle? Wow. Honestly, I didn't think you'd call."

She sighed. "I almost didn't. But... Look, my boss is glaring at me and we're swamped. Can we talk after work? Around 8?"

"Absolutely! Your restaurant?"

"God, no." She groaned. "I'll text you the address. Somewhere more neutral. Talk later. Bye."

She hung up before he could say more.

Tristan did a silent fist pump, then another. He spun once in place before realizing a few staff were staring. He smiled sheepishly and walked off, too elated to care.

By 8 PM, he arrived at the café she'd texted.

To his shock, she was already seated.

Wow. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had beaten him to a meeting spot-especially not one he hadn't picked up.

Even in a simple T-shirt and jeans, she looked stunning.

"Hey, Anabelle. How are you?"

"Hi, Tristan. I'm fine. Look, I'm sorry." She took a deep breath. "I just try to stay away from men, especially rich ones. Most of you are scumbags. You-" She stopped herself. "Sorry, I got carried away."

He smiled gently. "Apology accepted. Can I ask though... What exactly is your issue with rich men? Did one of us break your heart?"

Anabelle scoffed. "You wish. It wasn't me-it was my friend Olivia."

She looked down for a moment, then back up, eyes serious.

"She fell for this politician's son. His parents didn't approve of her. He promised to stay, even convinced her to get pregnant to force their hand. She didn't want to, but he sweet-talked her. The day she found out she was pregnant, she caught him all cozy with another woman. Confronted him, he denied it. Two days later, she saw his engagement pictures on TV."

She paused.

"She was shattered. She tried to abort. Something went wrong. She didn't make it."

Tristan's stomach twisted.

Olivia.

That name. It rang too loud in his ears. Then it hit him.

She was the girl his friend had talked about at the wedding.

He rubbed his temples. "I'm... sorry. That's awful. But believe me, not all of us are the same."

She gave him a small smile. "That's why I called. You deserved at least that much. Also... how exactly did you find me?"

Tristan grinned. "Let's just say I had a little chat with your colleague. He was surprisingly helpful."

Anabelle rolled her eyes. "That idiot. And I guess you gave him a little 'tip' too?"

He laughed. "I prefer the word 'encouragement.' How'd you get my number?"

Anabelle groaned. "Everyone signs in at the front desk. I checked the logbook."

"God bless security protocols," he said, making her chuckle.

She straightened, suddenly serious again. "Tristan, I appreciate the gifts. The flowers smelled amazing. And those chocolates? I looked them up. They're pricey. But tell me-what exactly do you want?"

Tristan was caught off guard.

She was direct.

Unapologetically honest.

He liked that.

Leaning in, he gently took her hand. "Nothing complicated. Just... give me a chance. Let me prove that not all of us are the same. I want to treat you right."

Anabelle looked at him for a long beat. Then she smiled.

"Alright, Tristan. But just friends. For now."

His grin lit up like the Vegas strip. He didn't care how long it took-he finally had a foot in the door.

That was how it began.

Two months later, he asked her out.

She agreed.

And just like that, Tristan found peace. The kind of peace he'd never found in money, connections, or power.

He'd found Anabelle.

His mother wasn't pleased-but his father warned her to let him be. For once, their son was truly happy.

Until tragedy struck.

Three months in, armed robbers stormed Anabelle's restaurant. The police botched the hostage situation, and amidst the panic and chaos-Anabelle was shot and killed.

The robbers escaped.

Tristan was shattered.

He couldn't eat, couldn't speak. For two whole months, he stayed indoors, ignoring calls, avoiding everyone. He moved out of his luxury condo to a remote neighborhood. Became a recluse. The only spark of life he had left was from updates his private investigator gave him about the case.

He rarely left the house-except to collect his food at the door.

Until one day, he stepped out...

And saw her.

Or someone who looked just like her-holding a pizza box outside his door.

He stared, heart thudding.

He called the pizza place immediately after she left. "Who delivered it to me just now?"

"Jessica Smith," came the reply.

He smiled.

Then gave a glowing review of their service, sent a generous tip-and immediately rang his private investigator.

"I need everything on a woman named Jessica Smith. In thirty minutes."

An hour later, he had his answer.

Jessica had a sick grandmother. She needed $500,000 for a kidney transplant.

And just like that-Tristan began to form a plan.