Chapter 2

“Class dismiss.”

“Bye, Juls!” Valerie waving her hands to her friend while rushing out to their classrooms.

“Heyy! Let’s hangout, Val!” Julia shouted at her while putting her things in her bag panickly.

“Next time, babe. I have part-time today, sorry!” She shouted back then finally leave their classroom.

---

Bluebean Café

The bell over the café door chimed softly as Valerie pushed it open from the staff entrance, the familiar aroma of roasted beans wrapping around her like a warm blanket. For a moment, it almost grounded her. Almost.

The café was small—cozy, dimly lit, and perpetually smelling of caramel syrup and espresso. Students gathered here after classes, tapping on laptops or whispering over group projects. The kind of place where people unwound.

Valerie wished she belonged among them.

Instead, she slipped behind the counter with a tired smile and tied on her apron.

“Val!” her co-worker, Mina, waved. “You’re early! Aren’t you tired from class?”

Valerie shrugged. “I’m okay.”

She wasn’t. But she had mastered the art of pretending.

After clocking in, she slid into the cashier spot, fingers resting on the register, scanning the line that was slowly forming. Work was… safe. Predictable. She liked handing change, pressing buttons, and giving people the illusion of warmth through forced smiles.

Everything was routine. Repetitive. Peaceful.

Until—

The café door chimed again.

The sound wasn’t different from the previous dozen times it rang, but Valerie felt something shift. A pressure. A ripple across her skin, like the air thickened.

She didn’t see him at first. Just tall figures and silhouettes blending with the crowd.

Then she looked up.

And the world seemed to freeze.

---

Drugo Hawthorne stepped inside.

It was him. Him.

The man from last night. The trembling hands.

The breath on her neck.

The heat of his skin.

The weight of his body.

The man she had tried desperately to forget.

He wasn’t stumbling now. He wasn’t drugged. He wasn’t vulnerable.

He was composed, standing tall, sharp, terrifyingly sure of himself.

Black slacks, crisp white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal veined forearms. His hair was styled back today, exposing the strong lines of his jaw. His expression was unreadable—cold, yet searching, as if scanning for something that only he knew was missing.

Valerie’s pulse spiked. Her grip tightened on the counter edge.

No.

No, no, no—

Why was he here?

He shouldn’t even remember her. He shouldn’t know her. He shouldn’t—

His eyes found hers.

A direct hit. Like being pinned by a spotlight she never asked for.

His gaze sharpened, recognition flickering faintly—something slow, gradual, unfolding. A searching look. A confirmation. A question.

Her breath caught in her throat.

He remembers.

God. He remembers.

---

He approached the counter.

Every step he took seemed magnified. Students moved aside without him saying a word. Something about his presence demanded space, demanded air, demanded notice.

Valerie’s hands trembled under the counter.

“Hi! Welcome—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat quickly. “Welcome to BlueBean Café. What can I get for you, sir?”

Her tone was professional. Polite. Perfectly neutral.

But inside her chest, panic was clawing upward.

Drugo stopped in front of her, studying her in a way that made her feel like her skin was too tight.

Up close, he looked even more devastating.

And dangerously familiar.

“That’s… you,” he murmured, voice low, deep. His gaze swept her features—her eyes, her lips, the cheek still faintly red from the morning slap. “The girl from last night.”

Her heart slammed painfully.

“I—I work here,” she whispered, as if that explained anything.

His brows knit. “You left before I woke.”

She flinched.

Yes.

Because she didn’t belong in a VIP hotel room with someone like him.

Because she didn’t know what she was allowed to feel.

Because she had to go home and cook breakfast for a family that didn’t want her.

“I had… responsibilities,” she forced out.

“Responsibilities?” he repeated, like the word was foreign to him. “You were trembling. Exhausted. Cold. And you just… left.”

Her throat tightened.

Why did he sound almost… hurt?

But the café line was growing behind him.

Valerie swallowed hard and quickly shifted into work-mode. “Sir, your order?”

His eyes narrowed, but he answered:

“Americano. Black. No sugar.”

She punched the order with stiff fingers.

“That will be—”

“I can pay,” he cut in softly, “if you look at me.”

Her breath hitched.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze.

He was staring at her—not with arrogance, but with something she couldn’t decipher. A heaviness. A recognition. A frustration.

“You ran away,” he said quietly. “Why?”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

People were watching. Mina was watching. Her chest tightened painfully.

“I didn’t run,” she whispered. “I had work. I have school. I have… a life to go back to.”

The life that hurt her. The life she didn’t get to escape. The life that didn’t care she had been shaken, violated, confused.

Drugo’s jaw tightened—barely, but she saw it.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

The question stunned her.

“I don’t know,” Valerie said truthfully, voice small. “I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t know what was happening to me. You were drugged, or drunk, or… something. You weren’t yourself.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched.

“I wasn’t drunk,” he said. “Someone slipped something into my drink. I don’t know who.”

Her breath trembled.

He was remembering. Piecing things together. And she was part of that night—an unwilling witness to a moment that neither of them fully understood.

“Sir…” Valerie whispered, “this is a place of work. Please… please take your coffee.”

Drugo slowly reached for his wallet, but didn’t break eye contact.

When their fingers brushed as she handed him the change, a shock ran up her arm—unwelcome, uninvited, undeserved.

He noticed.

His gaze dropped briefly to their touch, then back to her face.

“I want to talk to you,” he said quietly.

Valerie’s stomach dropped.

“No,” she said immediately. “I—I can’t. I don’t want to. Last night was a mistake. A horrible one.”

His expression hardened—not in anger, but in something else. Something that almost resembled fear. Or urgency.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he said.

“It was,” she whispered. “And I want to move on.”

Drugo leaned slightly closer, voice just for her.

“I can’t move on.”

Her breath caught painfully.

Not here. Not like this. Not in front of people.

“Please stop,” she begged softly. “Just… please.”

His eyes flickered at her tone. A crack in his composure.

Drugo stepped back slowly.

He picked up his Americano, but didn’t walk away.

Not yet.

“Valerie,” he said, tasting her name on his tongue.

Her heart splintered.

He shouldn’t know her name. He shouldn’t say it like that. He shouldn’t look at her like he was trying to memorize her.

“I don’t know what happened that night,” he admitted quietly. “But I know this—I can’t pretend it didn’t happen. And neither can you.”

Her throat closed.

He turned to leave.

But before he reached the door, he paused, looked back at her over his shoulder, and said:

“I’ll find you again... and I’ll take the responsibility of what have happened.”

The door chimed as he stepped outside.

But the echo of his words stayed inside her chest like a warning—

or a promise she never wanted.

Valerie gripped the counter, legs shaking, breath unsteady.

She wasn’t ready for this.

She wasn’t ready for him.

Because Drugo Hawthorne was no longer the drugged stranger in a dark hotel room.

He was awake now.

And he was looking for her.