ChapterOne
Everyone has a favourite coffee shop, and if they don’t, you should already know they’re not your person. Because coffee and snacks matter.
Marquee’s coffee is always piping hot, it never tastes burnt or bitter, and the muffins they bake fresh every morning are to die for.
I’m not just gaga for the coffee and food they serve. Marquee has an equally addictive vibe that wraps around you as soon as you walk in the door. And then there’s the staff: they go out of their way to treat you like they’re long-lost friends.
Whatever you want, they have. But they also don’t side-eye you into spiralling paranoia when you go plain. I think that was what elevated them to being my preferred coffee shop. While every other customer orders a combination of bespoke roasted beans with specialised dairy and non-dairy milk blends, my basic order is met with the same enthusiasm.
Coffee is the only thing in my life that is plain, which is why the staff’s easy acceptance of me and my order is such a buzz. I know I’m grasping for their acceptance. I’m good with it too. Because sometimes you have to grab onto what makes you feel good even if it’s fucking weird to other people.
The two bodyguards who shadow me constantly give a clue as to hownot simplebeing me is. The car parked illegally out the front and the three black credit cards in my Hermes wallet are also pretty telling.
Growing up in a city that has more wealth per capita than the rest of the country means I’m not the only YA who has their own security team trailing after them. But I am the only one whose parents have sat undisputed on top of the Rich List for the past thirty years. Not that the staff here have ever commented on that, or on the gold embossed Verdune name splayed boldly over all of my cards.
Being born into money brings a label with it. Nearly every person I meet eyes me suspiciously and judges me in an instant. Way too many people assume my family name and the sheer size of my wealth means I’m inept at being kind or humble. I suspect most of them also think I’m stupid, without even listening to the fact that not only was I born into money, but I also inherited my parents’ intelligence. Add in my Omega designation and suddenly I’m shut out of anything resembling friendship—without being given the chance to prove I’m more than my legacy or my designation. Unless of course those people want something, then they embarrassingly drip fake all over the place.
The staff are so good at treating me normally. It’s strangers in their judgy-judgy stares / glares who keep me a prisoner of the gilded cage I already live in. I’d be more than happy to stand around and chat about the weather, but they all take large and intentional steps away from me. But you learn to live with people being dicks.
Like you learn to live with having two men, dressed in blue suits with guns displayed on their hips follow you everywhere. If I take a step, Bradley takes one with me while Charlie follows behind us both. Because, you know, supposedly everything is a threat.
Which is BS because nothing ever happens except people being consistently hypercritical without saying a word to me.
Sadly, it’s not only strangers who have preconceived ideas about me—it’s the people I work with too. I guess in their mind working as an intern at Verdune is based on who my parents are. But if anyone bothered to ask, I’d happily explain the overly exhaustive process I had to endure before I was awarded the position.
Without hesitation my parents are my greatest allies and toughest critics—when they have the time.
Growing up I think I prayed every night for a baby brother or sister. And when it was made inherently clear having a sibling was never going to happen, I widened my prayers to include the discovery of a long-lost aunt, cousin, second or third cousin. All I wanted was someone else besides the hired help to be a part of my days. But prayers are like dreams, only relevant to those who have faith.
The sibling fantasy was categorically dismantled at a very young age when Margot and Allan sat me down and explained how biologically it would never happen. I’m sure some people would argue about how appropriate a discussion it is for an eleven-year-old and her parents to sit and discuss sterilisation methods, but I don’t think many other people have parents like mine either.
Science and medicine are imbued in my DNA. And while intellect isn’t based on the genetics of your parents, there was no chance in this life or the next that I wouldn’t be above average academically either.
There’s no question my father got his brilliance and affiliation with medicine from his own father: Dr. Albert Verdune. My grandfather is the man forever immortalised in the pages of history as the genius who discovered the disease, alocasia diplotaxis verdune or ADV. My father, Dr. Allan Verdune is the man who miraculously discovered a cure. He then built an empire on the top of their success, building and amassing the Verdune legacy by becoming the only manufacturer and supplier of the highly sought after drug Omara.
Coincidentally, the drug Omara is my namesake. Margot explained it during a moment of unexpected sharing that instead of an abbreviation or even the accolade to a long dead scholar, Omara is actually based on a similar sequence of consonants and repeating vowels as are in my name. My mother insisted it was father’s one moment of sentimentality in his world of proven theories and irrefutable evidence. She finished the discussion, suggesting I start using their first names too as I was growing up so fast, past the stage of being a child.
Regardless, it is with complete conviction I can say they love me, it’s in all the unconventional things they do. I just wish they weren’t so driven by achievement and caught up in the machination of the Verdune legacy.
I’m guilty of it too. Even as the queue moves, I spend the time reviewing a report Margot sent about her concerns on our IT firewalls. Even before the server asks for my order, I’m already looking up.
And when I do, I lose the ability to speak. Hell, I lose the ability to swallow as I come face to face with the most incredible pair of brown eyes I have ever seen.
The more I stare, the more parts of me tingle. I feel completely overwhelmed, but at the same time, it’s impossible to tear myself away from being hypnotised lucid by his chocolate-coloured eyes. They remind me of tempered chocolate—warm and dark—and right now they’re locked on me like I’m the first person he’s ever seen in his life.
When someone rushes an order on the other side of the counter, the air stirs, driving a cloud of his scent into my face. And the impact of his scent is equally instant and numbing.
I feel dizzy, like I’m a spinning top, but I’m unable to move until he breaks off our stare. The moment he breaks the spell I get the chance to properly take in the rest of him. Short clipped hair, so dark and glossy it reminds me of ebony. A shadow of stubble accentuates his jaw line, framing the most beautiful set of lips I’ve seen. And he is tall; the black Marquee apron on his waist is comically small.
“Are you going to order?”
I twist around at the sudden interruption from a man waiting behind me, which only confirms how blindsiding and intense the moment was. But before I can offer an apology, my security guard Charlie steps closer to the man in line to ask what his problem is.
“Sorry,” I mumble loud enough for everyone to hear. And I am sorry, but at the same time I don’t think I can rush out of here. Marquee’s new guy is utter perfection on so many levels.
My eyes drop to the name badge on his chest.
Ayden.
