Chapter 2

Dahlia POV:

Carlo tensed beside me, a reflex born from years of witnessing my explosive reactions. He expected a bottle to be thrown, a curse to be screamed. He expected the old Dahlia.

But the old Dahlia was busy dying.

I simply picked up the two steaming mugs of coffee I had prepared. I walked around the counter and placed one in front of Grace and the other in front of Carlo. I ignored Brooks completely.

"Oh, thank you!" Grace chirped, her eyes shining with a genuine, almost childlike adoration as she looked at Brooks. "You have to try this, honey. The owner here makes the best coffee."

She held the mug up to his lips.

He took a sip, his eyes never leaving my face. "It's bitter," he said, his voice low and laced with a double meaning only I could understand. "It leaves a bad taste in your mouth."

Grace frowned, confused. "It doesn't taste bitter to me." She didn't see the way he was looking at me, a deep, consuming gaze that felt like a physical touch. She was a child playing in a minefield, oblivious to the danger beneath her feet.

The door burst open again, admitting a loud, boisterous group of Brooks's acolytes. Young men in expensive suits, their faces flushed with alcohol and entitlement. They stopped short when they saw me, their laughter dying in their throats.

I remembered them. They were the hyenas that followed the lion, always circling, waiting for a scrap. They had seen our ugliest fights, had flinched when I' d thrown things.

They eyed me warily, then looked to Carlo as if for guidance.

I just picked up a tray of coffee mugs and moved toward their table. As I approached, they flinched, one of them even raising his arms as if to shield himself.

Pathetic. The collateral damage of my war with Brooks had always been other people.

"What's the situation?" one of them whispered to Carlo, his eyes darting toward me.

Carlo just shrugged, taking a long sip of his drink. He knew this was a storm he couldn't control.

I set the mugs down and turned to leave.

"Wait," Grace said, her voice bright and commanding. Her hand shot out and grabbed my arm. "Could you take a picture for us? For my followers. They'd love to see this reunion."

I looked down at her perfectly manicured hand on my sleeve. "No," I said, my voice flat.

I tried to pull my arm away, but Brooks stepped forward. He didn't touch me. He just took out his wallet, pulled out a thick wad of cash, and held it out. "Everything has a price, Dahlia. You taught me that. Name it."

When I didn't respond, he let the bills flutter from his fingers, a green waterfall that landed in a messy pile on the floor at my feet. "Take the damn picture," he commanded, his voice laced with that familiar, cruel arrogance.

For a long moment, I just stared at the money scattered on the worn linoleum. Then, slowly, I bent down and began to pick it up, one bill at a time.

"I'm so sorry," Grace said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "He's just... in a mood."

"Oh, I know," I said, my voice quiet as I straightened up, the crumpled bills clutched in my fist. "He's not offering me money. He's reminding me that he thinks I'm trash he can buy."

One of the hyenas snickered. "She's not wrong. For the right price, she'd probably..."

I didn't let him finish.

In one swift movement, I lunged forward. I grabbed Brooks by the tie, yanking his face down to my level. I shoved the wad of crumpled cash into his open mouth, the paper scraping against his teeth.

Before he could react, I grabbed the coffee mug from Grace's hand and poured the hot liquid down his throat, forcing him to swallow the money-laced coffee. He choked and sputtered, his eyes wide with shock and fury.

Then I turned, my hand connecting with the snickering hyena's face in a slap that echoed through the stunned silence of the café.

"The next time you open your mouth," I hissed, my face inches from his, "I'll sew it shut myself."

The café was dead silent, the only sound the relentless drumming of the rain against the windows.

Carlo sighed and took a long, slow drink from his mug, as if this was just another Tuesday.

Grace was the first to break the silence, her voice trembling with indignation. "You can't just hit people!"

I turned to her. And I slapped her too. Hard. The sound was sharp, ugly.

Brooks wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a dark stain of coffee on his pristine white shirt. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Now that," he said, his voice a purr of delight, "is the Dahlia I remember."

He looked at Grace, whose eyes were welling with tears as she clutched her red cheek. "How do you want to get her back, darling?" he asked, his tone deceptively gentle. "Tell me. I'll do anything for you."

Grace stared at me, her face a mask of shock and hatred. She nodded, a single, vicious jerk of her head.

Brooks's smile widened. He snapped his fingers. "Tear it down," he said to his men. "All of it."

The hyenas, now emboldened, grinned. Two of them went out to a truck and came back with crowbars and sledgehammers.

The destruction was swift and brutal. They smashed the remaining records, shattered the glass, kicked holes in the drywall. The sound of splintering wood and breaking glass filled the air. Rain began to pour in through a newly created hole in the ceiling.

It was over in minutes. The small café was a wreck, a pile of debris and broken dreams.

Brooks stepped through the wreckage, cornering me against a ruined wall. He cupped my face in his hand, his thumb stroking my cheek. "See, Dahlia? I can give you everything. And I can take it all away." He leaned in, his voice a hot whisper against my ear. "But God, I still want you. Come back to me."

I shoved him away, a violent coughing fit wracking my body. I stumbled through the debris, my eyes searching for my purse. For my pills. The pain was a roaring fire in my bones.

I found my purse, my fingers fumbling with the clasp. I saw the bottle of painkillers.

Brooks watched me, his expression one of cold amusement. "What's that? Vitamins?"

He strode over, snatched the bottle from my hand, and casually tossed it into a large puddle of rainwater and coffee on the floor.

"You don't need those," he said, his smile never reaching his eyes. He wrapped an arm around a sobbing Grace and steered her toward the door. "You just need me."

They left. I stood alone in the ruins of my life, the rain dripping on my head.

I knelt by the puddle, my hands shaking, and fished the bottle out of the murky water. I twisted the cap off and dry-swallowed a handful of pills, far more than the prescribed dose.

The bottle said to take one every six hours as needed. In the last week, since he' d come back, I' d gone through a three-month supply.

And it still wasn't enough. It was never enough.

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