Winston didn’t just want order. He wanted obedience. He wanted possession.

Standing here now, in this shop that feels too pristine, too . . . perfect, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve walked straight into another cage—one I won’t escape so easily this time. Maybe I should turn around and never come back, but what if I’m wrong? I need this.

Atlas Timberbridge stands behind the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest, completely still. But not in the way of a man at ease—in the way of someone who doesn’t waste movement. Someone who only reacts when necessary. His presence fills the space, not because he tries to command it, but because he exists with the quiet confidence of a man who’s never needed to prove himself.

His gaze moves over me, assessing, but not with curiosity or interest. It’s clinical and efficient—like he’s cataloging details, filing them away for later. Like he had a computer inside his head and was running a background check.

This guy is really something—why didn’t I notice him yesterday? I was too tired and overwhelmed. If I had, I would’ve just avoided coming over.

He’s not only dangerous, he’s also too attractive. I mean, look at him. His jawline is strong, framed by just enough scruff to add to his ruggedness, but not in a careless way. His cheekbones cut clean lines, casting subtle shadows over the angles of his face. They frame the intensity in his features, contrasting with the fullness of his lips. But it’s his eyes that hit the hardest.

Ice-blue.

Piercing.

Cold.

They don’t just look at you—they strip you bare, layer by layer, down to the last secret you didn’t know you were hiding. There’s no warmth in them, no curiosity, no invitation for a pleasant conversation. Just quiet calculation, like he already knows what I’m doing here. Maybe even what I’m running from.

I fight the instinct to check the exits and to actually run away. I have to be honest with myself. This isn’t just a casual request for employment. I really need this second job.

Even though Galeana offered me a place to stay, I can’t rely on the kindness of strangers. Whatever this guy can give me will help a lot more. I barely have enough to get through the next few weeks, and babies need more than just scraped-together tips from a café.

I adjust the grip on my purse, forcing my voice to remain calm, almost professional. After all, this is like a job interview—small-town-desperate edition. “Hi, I came by to see when I can start working for you.” That’s assertive, isn’t it?