Chapter 2 Bitter Tips

The café looked warm from the outside, string lights glowing softly through the morning haze, pastries glistening beneath glass domes, and mismatched tables arranged with that curated, "accidental" charm influencers posted about.

It pretended to be cozy.

It pretended to be kind. But for Aria, it was just another cage wearing prettier colors.

She pushed through the staff door, tying her apron with fingers still stiff from last night's late shift at Maggie's. The bell above the door chimed. To most, it was a pleasant sound. To her, it was a warning, a countdown to surviving another day.

Monica Kane was already behind the counter.

Red lipstick and sharp, blonde hair in a perfect twist, and a smile thin enough to slice skin.

"Late," Monica said, even though Aria was six minutes early.

"Good morning," Aria whispered, masking exhaustion with the soft, practiced smile she'd perfected over the years. The kind of smile that hid bruises under makeup Gregory insisted she learn to apply. The kind of smile that kept her safe. Or invisible.

Monica didn't return it.

She never did.

"Refill the pastries." Monica flicked her manicured hand toward the display. "And try not to bruise the croissants this time. The customers prefer their food handled by people who aren't incompetent."

Aria nodded, tucking her chin, letting the insult skim across her skin like a pebble across water. She had long ago learned which battles were worth fighting.

And none of them were here.

The café warmed with the steady flow of commuters and weary parents. Conversations blended into a muted hum. The espresso machine hissed. The pastry case fogged softly. And Aria moved through it all like clockwork, emotion tucked safely under bone, heart wrapped quiet in its cage.

Then she saw him.

A little boy, maybe three, maybe younger, with curly hair and sticky fingers. Ice cream melting down his wrist.

His mother looked exhausted in the way people did when life never paused. She apologized softly to the tables around her, her voice wavering like she was scared to take up space.

The boy stumbled.

The cone slipped.

The ice cream hit the floor with a sad, wet splat, and his face-God, his face-crumbled.

His sob sliced through the room. Through her ribs.

Aria set her tray down and knelt, knees pressing into cold tile.

"Hey, sweetheart." She brushed a curl from his forehead, voice warm despite the ache in her chest. "That looked like a big fall."

"I... I dropped it." His voice broke.

Aria swallowed.

She knew that sound too well; loss, no matter how small, always felt colossal when life offered so little.

"I have an idea," she whispered.

She reached into her apron, fingers curling around the two-dollar tip she'd hidden, the only money Monica hadn't already claimed as her daily tax of cruelty.

She pressed the bill into his tiny palm.

"Go get another one, okay? It's for you."

The mother stiffened, eyes going wide, gratitude tangled with shame.

"I-I can't accept that," she murmured. "I'm so sorry, I don't,"

"It's just ice cream," Aria said softly. "Let him have this. Let him have something good today."

The boy sniffed, blinked, then offered a small, watery smile before scurrying toward the counter.

Aria let herself breathe for the first time that morning. But warmth never lasted long here.

Heels clicked behind her.

"Aria."

Her stomach dropped, and her spine locked.

Monica's voice was venom wrapped in velvet.

"What. Did. You. Just. Do?"

Aria rose slowly, palms sweating.

"I was just helping the boy. He,"

"Oh, helping?" Monica laughed, loud enough for customers to turn and stare. "Is that what theft is called now?"

"Monica, it was my tip."

"Your tip?" Monica stepped closer, perfume sweet enough to choke. "Sweetheart, nothing in this place is yours."

Aria's throat tightened. "It was only two dollars."

"And two dollars I should have had." Monica snapped her fingers. "Hand it over. All of it. Now."

Aria flinched.

"Please... Monica, I,"

"Everything."

That word hit like a slap.

Hands trembling, Aria emptied the crumpled coins and bills into Monica's waiting palm, her bus fare, her dinner money, and her hope for a tiny scrap of control.

Monica counted it like she was counting victory.

"Pathetic," she said loudly, turning so a couple by the window could hear. "I give you work, teach you how to appear presentable, and you repay me with theft? You should be grateful I haven't fired you already."

Aria's eyes stung, humiliation burning as hot as the rage she couldn't afford to show.

The mother walked past, giving her a soft, apologetic smile.

The boy waved his new ice cream proudly.

Aria managed to smile back.

It wasn't much, but it was hers.

Monica stepped closer, breath warm and poisonous at Aria's cheek.

"Back to work," she hissed. "Or you can kiss your job goodbye. Not that anyone else would hire someone like you."

Aria lowered her head and returned to the counter, arranging pastries with quiet precision even as her hands shook.

The day dragged like a punishment.

"You're wiping too slowly."

"That's not how you greet customers."

"Don't look so sad; it makes us look cheap."

"Fix your hair."

"No, not like-that's worse."

"My God, Aria, do you ever do anything right?"

Every insult was another stone on her chest.

Survival wasn't bravery. It was silence; it was swallowing hurt before it reached the surface, and it was bleeding inward so no one could call it a mess. By closing time, her body felt bruised from the inside out. She cleaned the café in silence, counting the seconds until she could leave. The few coins she'd managed to hide were tucked deep in her boot, far from Monica's reach.

Finally, she locked the door. The night air kissed her cheeks, cold and sharp, clearing the lingering sting of humiliation. For a moment, she closed her eyes.

Today had been cruel, and tomorrow would be crueler, but she had given a child something small and bright. Monica could take her tips, her dignity, and her time. But she could not take that moment.

Aria Morgan had nothing.

No money, no safety net, and no soft place to land. But she still had her heart, and someday, whether Monica, Gregory, or the world liked it or not, that heart would save her. Or burn everything keeping her small.