BOUND BY HIS NAME

I didn't know how I got back to my mother's apartment; all I knew was that I was back home. My heart cracked in a way that made it hard to breathe. Our landlord didn't even bother to call. He just tossed my life into the street like garbage. I buried my face in my hands until my tears soaked into my palms. I had no job. No home. A sick mother depending on me. And now... nowhere to go. My phone buzzed suddenly. I wiped my face and checked the screen. Unknown Number: Miss Ramirez? This is the manager from Café El Molino. Please return immediately. I blinked. Return? I called her quickly. "Hello? Ma'am? Please, I saw a text message." "Yes, I sent it. Someone just quit the job, and I'm in need of a replacement," she said. "You got the job." I almost dropped my phone. "I don't know what to say, but all I know is that I'm hired," I whispered to myself. "Are you coming or not?" the voice asked through the phone. "Yes! Yes, I'm coming!" I breathed, hardly believing it. The call ended. I ran back to the café. The café was busy when I returned-people talking over each other, spoons clinking, cups steaming. The manager thrust an apron into my hands. "You will start right away. Don't embarrass us again." "Understood," I said, swallowing. I tied the apron and stepped behind the counter, repeating the steps they'd taught me: Smile, take orders, deliver drinks quickly, don't trip, don't stare, and don't drop anything. Easy enough. Until a huge muscular man walked in. He was wearing a black t-shirt and ash pants. He entered the café like the air shifted to make room for him. Conversations dimmed. Heads turned. Even the manager straightened her blouse, nervous. His presence slicing through the crowded space like a blade. His eyes scanned the room- And landed on me. My breath hitched. He approached slowly, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. "Coffee girl," he said, voice smooth and deep. I nearly choked on my own spit. "Sorry, but I'm new here; maybe you might be mistaking me for someone else," I whispered. "You work here now?" he asked, and I gave a slight nod of surprise, trying to recall where we met. "Have we met before?" I asked. "Nope, not exactly," he responded as his gaze slid down to my apron, then back up to my face. I felt stripped bare under that stare. "What can I get you?" I managed, trying to sound professional. "A double espresso." I nodded and turned to make it. Another customer waved their hand. "Miss? My latte?" "Right away," I said. Someone else tapped the counter. "Refill, please!" "I'll attend to you in a moment." I was juggling three orders when I heard a low voice behind me. "I ordered before them," the muscular man said. I turned slowly. "Yes, and I will get to you. But they ordered before you walked in." His brows lifted. Not angrily. Not shocked. Just... curious. "You're telling me to wait?" he asked. I swallowed. "Yes. That's how a queue works." The barista beside me gasped quietly. The manager nearly dropped a tray. "No one dares talk to me like that," he uttered. "No one." He stared at me, eyes darkening-not with rage, but something colder, something assessing. "And what," he asked softly, "makes you think I'm the type of man who waits?" "Everyone waits," I whispered back. "Even you." A silence wrapped around us. Thick. Heavy. Electric. Then something strange happened. His lips twitched. Was he... amused? Impossible. But he stepped back, hands raised slightly. "Very well. Surprise me." I blinked, stunned. Did he just... listen? I made his espresso second. Not first. I wasn't suicidal. When I finally placed the cup gently in front of him, he didn't touch it. He only held my gaze. "What's your price?" "My price?" I echoed. "For your honesty. Not many people speak to me like that." "I wasn't being brave," I muttered. "Just doing my job." "Is that what this is?" he said softly. "A job?" I frowned. "What else would it be?" He leaned closer. "You'll find out soon enough." Something shivered down my spine. Before I could respond, the manager burst out of the backroom, a fake smile plastered on her face. "Sir! Is everything satisfactory? Hope Isabella didn't delay your order, did she?" I clenched my jaw. His eyes sparkled with something dangerously close to amusement. "She has a... strong sense of order," he said. "I appreciate that." My manager looked relieved. "Very good! Please enjoy your espresso." After he had finished his drink, he stood, taking out his wallet. Then he placed a crisp set of bills into my hand-far more than the drink cost. A lot more. "Keep the change, Isabella." My eyes widened. "Sir, this is too much-" "You need it," he said simply. "And I needed entertainment." I opened my mouth, offended and grateful at the same time. But before I could speak, my manager's nails dug hard into my arm. As he walked away, she hissed in my ear: "If that man ever walks out of this shop dissatisfied, you're fired. Do you understand? He's Hector; he is the most powerful customer and the most famous man in the city. You mess this up..." Her grip tightened until it hurt. "You lose everything. Again." I stiffened. After my manager finished speaking, she asked for the bill. I quickly reached into my apron and brought out the money. Before I could place it on the table, my boss grabbed it from my hand, rough and impatient. I winced softly. When her hand dropped back to my side, a red mark was already forming on my skin. I said nothing. I turned and walked back toward the counter, my steps steady even though my fingers were still tingling. As soon as I reached the counter, a colleague leaned closer, pretending to wipe a glass. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "That man who just left," she said quietly. "Hector." My hands paused. "He's more dangerous than the one you spilled coffee on earlier," the woman continued. "And the worst part?" She glanced around before finishing. "He never gives without expecting something back." I looked down at my hand, still burning. "So... my dear," the colleague added softly, "I hope you're not planning to use the money he gave you."