Chapter 2
Liam POV
It felt like the bus had kicked me off in the middle
of nowhere—though in truth, I was the one who’d told it to stop. The last town
on the route hadn’t sounded right, not when I was searching for Edinburgh.
Or maybe I was mixing it up. Maybe last fall I’d been in Edinburgh, Europe, not
here in America. Back then, I’d had a random woman hooked on my arm and a
business deal unfolding in the background.
They always say never to mix business with pleasure.
I’d agree, if the scale ever balanced. But for me, there was never any
pleasure. Just business stacked on top of business. Deal after deal, handshakes
and contracts until I started believing this was all life was meant to be;
build a company, expand it, pass it on to the next generation, and let them
repeat the same damn cycle.
Somehow, somewhere, I’d become a slave to my own
empire. Bound by the people closest to me; family, partners, shareholders. And
one morning, I simply couldn’t take it anymore. I had to run.
So, I did. I grabbed whatever cash I could find, which
wasn’t much; almost everything I owned lived in digital accounts and plastic
cards. I stuffed a backpack with enough clothes for a couple of weeks, slipped
out the back door of my house like a thief, and didn’t look back.
I wasn’t planning to disappear forever. I just needed
a break. Needed to feel something other than marble floors, leather chairs, and
constant expectations. I wanted to know what the world felt like for everyone
else, for the people I worked with but never lived like.
All my life, I’d hired “regular people,” sat
across from them in meetings, watched them clock in and out, but I’d never once
stood in their shoes. Never once felt the anxiety of living paycheck to
paycheck. My life wasn’t falling apart because I lacked money, it was falling
apart because I had too damn much of it.
Too many businesses. Too many deals. Too much on my
plate. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost myself entirely. I didn’t even know
who I was anymore. Couldn’t name my favorite food. Couldn’t tell you what kind
of music I actually liked. I didn’t dance. I didn’t date. I barely lived; I
just breathed.
The bus rumbled off, leaving me standing alone with a
clear view of the town. I could’ve turned around right then, booked another
ticket, and gone back to my life of boardrooms and back-to-back calls. And
maybe I should have. Because the truth was, I wouldn’t survive here. Not
really. I didn’t know the first thing about survival.
The only reason I even knew how to throw a punch was
because I owned a boxing club; a side project for kids and adults alike.
Sometimes I trained there, just enough to pretend I was part of something real.
But actual living? I had no clue.
So, what the hell was I doing, getting off that damn
bus? Maybe I just wanted the ride. To sit shoulder to shoulder with strangers,
hear the hum of mixed conversations, instead of being trapped in the backseat
of my car with a driver, a bodyguard, and three assistants breathing down my
neck.
I looked around, inhaling the air. It wasn’t
Edinburgh, Europe, not even close, but there was a strange quality to the scent
here. Something pronged, something familiar in a way I couldn’t place.
Then my gaze landed on it; a coffee shop tucked
between two other storefronts, almost swallowed by the enormous tree leaning
over it. Its branches stretched wide, shadowing the building, like they were
trying to smother it. Something about the place snagged my attention and
wouldn’t let go.
Still, when I scanned the street, it looked nothing
like a city. No skyscrapers, no frantic rush. Just… stillness. Not a single
person passing by.
I shifted, unsettled, and noticed the bus stop bench
for the first time. I sat, backpack at my feet, eyes darting as I took
everything in. I didn’t have a plan; not really. My only “plan” was to vanish
for a week, breathe air that wasn’t conditioned by wealth and expectation, and
then slink back home. I’d apologize to my family, especially my parents, smile
like nothing had happened, and slide back into the role I was supposed to play.
But sitting there, in the quiet of a town I didn’t
know, I wasn’t so sure I’d be able to pretend anymore.
I didn’t have a plan. Not really. I didn’t know where
to go or what to do next. All I knew was that I had this bench to rest on, and
that was it, for however long it lasted. The sun was climbing higher, ripening
in the sky, but the streets were still damp from the rain. Another storm could
start at any moment, and I had nothing to protect myself with.
Maybe I should wait for the next bus, buy a ticket,
and go back. But my official phone stayed at home. I hadn’t brought anything
with me. For the first time in years, it felt like I had a new identity; an
empty slate, free from schedules, calls, and obligations.
The wind picked up, tugging at my hoodie, and I
gripped it tighter. A heavier coat would have been better. Leaves swirled
around, lifted by gusts, dancing like confetti in the air. One golden leaf,
speckled with veins of red, drifted lazily and landed on my lap. I picked it
up.
And just like that, I froze. I was staring at a leaf.
Really staring. Examining it as though it were an artifact, turning it over in
my hands. Its edges were delicate, the color deep and layered, the veins almost
glowing against the gold. And I thought, I must be going insane.
Leaves had always fallen in autumn. I’d seen them
every year. But I’d never looked at one. Not like this. Not ever. I’d
never been a person who lived in the moment. Childhood hadn’t been about
discovery or wonder. It had been about performance; perfecting sports,
mastering instruments, acing exams. I had to hit the bullseye, hit the right
pitch, know exactly what to expect. Who had time to inspect a leaf? To feel the
grass beneath their fingers? To even play for the sake of playing?
Honestly, I’d never even touched grass. It looked
green and alien to me. Ugly, even. I hated green.
But now, holding this leaf, spinning it between my
fingers, observing every curve and vein with the intensity of someone seeing it
for the first time, I felt… alive. Alien, almost, but alive. So, beautiful it
hurt in a way I hadn’t expected. I couldn’t let it drift away with the wind.
Was this freedom? This—staring at a leaf like it
mattered? Maybe it was. Maybe this was my first small, unclaimed piece of life,
a quiet rebellion against the structure that had ruled me for decades.
I kicked my legs out, stretching them as far as I
could. My body—the one real imperfection, though hardly for me, more for my
family. I had a cock between my legs. It had been a problem at first. My family
had looked at me like I was some kind of little monster. They wanted it gone.
But the doctors were firm, removing it would leave me unable to function. And
function I did. Too well, sometimes.
I had become a womanizer. Business and pleasure were
inseparable in my life; not because I wanted it, but because I needed
it. Nights alone were unbearable. I spent millions on companionship, on bodies
that could distract me from my inner voice that whispered I should settle down,
marry, have kids, train them to be the next generation of cold, efficient
heirs. Kids who would inherit the same obsessive drive, the same cruel
discipline I had endured.
Starve them if they failed. Punish them if they dared
to think differently. Beat them if they wandered off the path my ancestors had
carved. Train them to worship the company like a god, to live for it, breathe
for it, and die for it. My father had done it. His father before him. And their
fathers before that. It was a legacy written in steel and blood, a machine that
ground down generations into efficiency and obedience. And somehow, it all
funneled down to me.
But I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t.
Not because I didn’t want to, not because I refused.
But because the thought of raising children to be extensions of a company
instead of humans made my chest ache. That path was poison.
I laughed quietly to myself, a sharp little bark into
the empty air. Maybe I should stop thinking altogether. I had escaped, for a
little while, at least. No money, no assistants, no bodyguard hovering over my
shoulder, no expectations demanding every ounce of my attention. I might
suffer. I might feel the bite of reality for the first time in decades.
But maybe that was exactly what I wanted.
“That’s the first sign of craziness?” a soft voice
said.
I glanced up from the leaf, startled. The warmth of my
hands had made it quail, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure what else to focus on.
A chubby woman stood there, and her voice matched her appearance; soft,
rounded, comforting in a strange way. I’d already noticed her green eyes, and
instinctively looked away. I hate green. Yet here I was, forced to see it in
someone else.
“Laughing to yourself is the first sign of craziness…
It’s a joke… not something to take seriously,” she said.
Her tone was gentle, lilting. She was soft, not just
in voice but in presence; her body, her skin, even the way she moved.
“You’ve been here all day? Is anyone coming to get
you? Maybe they forgot,” she giggled.
I couldn’t help but glance at her, caught off guard by
the sound. Cute. She was chubby, yes, but cute in a way that made me briefly
forget everything I told myself about appearances and desire. Definitely not my
type for bed, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that.
“I’m not waiting for anyone,” I said, a little
defensively.
She raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. “You sit here
all day and have no one coming for you? Are you an escapee from a prison or a
mental hospital?” She laughed again, a deep, warm sound—like Santa Claus. I
hated Santa Claus. Always had. Christmas was meant to be prestigious,
controlled. Gifts stacked uniformly under a perfectly trimmed pine tree, each
wrapped in identical, boring black paper.
Who in their right mind wrapped something amazing in
black?
Santa Claus wasn’t real anyway. There had never been a
discussion about him, only the cold truth; if you wanted something, begging or
writing a letter wasn’t enough. You worked for it, earned it.
“A joke?” I muttered under my breath, irritated. What
the hell was that supposed to mean? Her version of a joke was weak, flat. I
didn’t like it. The only things I ever found funny were sharp, biting political
jokes. Ones that cut into reality, not fluff like this.
“Yeah… something where I don’t mean to offend you,”
she said,
Shifting on the bench. My legs spread out a little
more, fingers tapping absently against my thigh.
She watched me, biting her lip, but didn’t seem to
judge. Not even for the man-spreading. Usually, I kept one leg crossed over the
other, careful about appearances, but right now? I didn’t care.
“I’m not offended,”
“You’re here on your own. With nowhere to go,”
“That’s about it,” I replied, shrugging.
“You must be starving.”
“You must be wrong,” I said flatly.
“You’ve been sitting here for six hours. Just staring
at a leaf and you’re not starving?”
“Nope.”
She tilted her head, smiling faintly. “Okay. I’m the
owner of Cozy Cups Coffee Shop.” She pointed across the street. “You can come
have a cup of coffee—on the house.”
I froze. The words hit me in an odd way. Coffee. My
life was dedicated to coffee. I drank it constantly, to the point where the
bitter aftertaste and acrid scent barely registered anymore. Usually, I popped
a gum immediately after to cover it. At times, I was, walking around with
coffee breath, and somehow it didn’t matter. Women still flocked to me. Still
wanted attention. Still wanted… something.
“Okay,” I said finally, the corner of my mouth
twitching into a small smirk.
She smiled, bright and unreserved, like giving free
coffee was the happiest thing in her day. I couldn’t help but notice. It struck
a chord I didn’t expect, considering I only had a couple hundred dollars on me;
just enough for a week of motel rooms, a single meal a day scavenged somewhere,
and survival at its most basic.
I followed her into the coffee shop. The interior was
neat, intentionally small, like a curated escape. It wasn’t one of those
prestigious, city-center coffee shops buzzing with corporate workers and
Instagram snapshots. This place felt… human. Homey. Cozy. Warm without trying
too hard. There was a slight weight of age in the furniture, a subtle
outdatedness that only added charm.
She led me to a seat by the window. I still held the
leaf in my hand, unwilling to let it go, spinning it absently as the light
caught the veins. I wasn’t ready to release it, and somehow, I didn’t want to.
It felt like the only tangible thing I had claimed for myself in hours.
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