Chapter 2 Bitter Tips

The bell above the café door jingled as Aria pushed it open, stepping into the familiar scent of coffee, baked bread, and the faint undertone of cleaning supplies. She adjusted her apron, her fingers catching on a frayed thread near the pocket where the fabric had come undone. A small, but growing, tear marred the faded blue material. She quickly smoothed it down over her worn uniform, forcing a smile as she greeted the few early customers.

It was a small café, part of a family-run empire, and though it had charm, it had long ceased to feel like a refuge. Every smile she offered was a mask, every polite word measured to avoid Monica Kane's sharp eyes and sharper tongue. Monica, the owner, was a woman with a keen sense for profit and cruelty. She ran the place with an iron fist disguised as charm, and Aria, unfortunately, had become her favorite target.

As she refilled a tray of pastries, Aria noticed a mother huddled in the corner, trying to console her young son who had dropped his ice cream. The boy, no more than three, clutched at the melting mess on the floor and began to wail, tears streaming down his cheeks. The mother's face was pale and anxious, her hand rubbing at her forehead as she muttered apologies to nearby tables.

Aria's heart clenched. She knew the struggle of wanting something she couldn't afford, of facing disappointment that felt like the weight of the world. She walked over, kneeling to the boy's level.

"Hey there, sweetie," she said softly, smiling despite the exhaustion dragging at her every limb. "It's okay. Accidents happen."

The boy sniffled and looked up at her, his big brown eyes watering. "I dropped it," he said in a small, quivering voice.

"I know," Aria said gently, brushing a curl of hair from his forehead. "But I have an idea." She reached into the small fold of her apron, feeling the crumpled two-dollar note she had received as a tip earlier that morning, careful to keep it hidden from Monica. She pressed it into the boy's tiny hand.

"Here," she whispered. "Go get another ice cream. It's okay. You don't have to cry anymore."

The mother gasped softly, her eyes widening in gratitude. "I can't afford it," she said, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry."

Aria shook her head, smiling warmly. "It's fine. Consider it a little treat for him. Don't worry about paying me back."

The boy's face lit up with a tentative smile, and he ran off to the counter with the crumpled note. Aria watched as the ice cream was replaced, and he turned to wave at her with sticky fingers, grinning through his tears. The warmth in her chest was a small comfort, a reminder that kindness could still exist in a world that often seemed cruel. But kindness had its price, especially in Monica Kane's café.

"Aria!" Monica's voice cut through the soft hum of the morning crowd, sharp and accusatory. "What do you think you're doing?"

Aria froze, her heart sinking. She turned to see Monica standing in the doorway, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes flicked to the boy, then back to Aria, narrowing with suspicion.

"I just helped the boy with his ice cream," Aria said, trying to keep her voice calm. "I,"

"Helped?" Monica repeated, incredulous. "Do you hear yourself? You're stealing from me, Aria. That tip money, every penny, is mine, do you understand? You don't get to decide how it's spent. And don't think I didn't notice you slipping that bill out."

Aria swallowed hard, feeling the familiar tightness in her chest. She had tried to hide the money, hoping that a small act of kindness would go unnoticed. But Monica's sharp eyes missed nothing.

"It was just two dollars," Aria whispered. "I only wanted to-"

"Two dollars?" Monica's voice was venomous, rising over the quiet murmurs of the other customers. "Two dollars that I should have had! You're pathetic. Always sneaking, always thinking you're better than everyone else. That's not your money to give away! That's mine! Every single cent you earn belongs to me, do you understand?"

Aria nodded silently, her hands trembling at her sides. She wanted to speak, to defend herself, but Monica's glare was a wall she could not breach.

"Come here," Monica barked, striding toward her. "Give me all the tips you've earned this morning. Every single penny."

Aria's stomach sank as she opened her apron and handed over the coins and bills she had carefully collected, including the small portion she had set aside to survive the week. Monica snatched them from her hands, jingling them with a triumphant smirk.

"You see?" Monica said, holding the money up as if it were a trophy. "This is why I run this place and you serve at my mercy. You're lucky I even let you work here."

Aria's chest burned not from the slap Monica had given her, but from the weight of injustice. She had worked so hard, earned so little, and now even the small kindness she had shown a child was punished. The unfairness of it gnawed at her, but she swallowed the lump in her throat. Survival had taught her restraint. Complaining would earn her nothing but more cruelty.

The mother and her son waved quietly as they left the café, the boy clutching his new ice cream with a grin. Aria watched them go, a bittersweet ache in her chest. Small moments like this were rare and fleeting, but they reminded her that the world was not entirely cruel. That sometimes, even in the darkest places, a spark of light could exist.

Monica's voice snapped her back. "Get back to work! Tables aren't going to clean themselves, and your smiling isn't going to pay my bills!"

Aria nodded, her hands shaking slightly as she returned to the counter. She wiped down the surfaces meticulously, arranged the pastries, and refilled the coffee pots, all while keeping her head down and avoiding Monica's piercing gaze. Customers came and went, some polite, some impatient, and she served them all with the same forced cheer, hiding the storm of emotions that churned inside her.

By mid-morning, her feet ached, her uniform was stained with coffee and crumbs, and her fingers were sticky from handling cups and napkins. She paused for a moment to catch her breath, letting her gaze drift to the small window overlooking the street. Sunlight streamed in, casting a warm glow over the café's worn tables and cheerful décor, a stark contrast to the heaviness in her chest.

Even as Monica barked instructions from behind the counter, criticizing the placement of pastries or the way Aria had folded a napkin, Aria felt a quiet strength growing inside her. Every insult, every stolen tip, and every harsh word was a reminder that she was enduring, surviving, and still capable of kindness. That despite the cruelty she faced, she could still choose compassion.

Lunch hour arrived, and the café filled with the clatter of dishes, chatter of customers, and the hiss of the espresso machine. Aria moved quickly, balancing trays, taking orders, and keeping a smile on her face, though her body ached with exhaustion. Monica hovered nearby, snapping orders at her, criticizing her speed, and pointing out imagined mistakes.

"Do you even know what you're doing?" Monica snapped as Aria served a latte. "Do you have any idea how to handle customers without embarrassing yourself? Or me?"

"Yes, Monica," Aria said softly, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from arguing.

"Don't talk back," Monica hissed. "And don't even think about doing anything 'kind' again. That's not your job. Your job is to work, earn, and not question anything."

Aria nodded, keeping her focus on the work in front of her. Every task, every movement, was a small act of defiance and survival. She might be powerless in Monica's eyes, but she could still control her heart, her choices, and her ability to show kindness where it mattered most.

The afternoon dragged on, and by closing time, Aria was bone-tired. Her uniform was marked with coffee stains, crumbs clung to her sleeves, and her feet throbbed painfully from hours on them. She counted the few coins she had managed to hide from Monica, tucking them carefully into her apron pocket. Every small dollar was precious, a tiny lifeline in a world that seemed determined to crush her spirit.

As she locked the café door behind her, the weight of the day pressed heavily on her shoulders. She took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp evening air, and felt a moment of quiet pride. Despite the insults, despite the stolen tips, despite the endless demands, she had done something good today. She had helped a child, and in doing so, reminded herself that kindness was stronger than cruelty.

Tomorrow, she would wake early, face Monica's sharp tongue, and endure another day. But she would endure it with the quiet certainty that she was more than the sum of others' cruelty. She was Aria Morgan, and someday, the world would see her strength.