Page 26 of The Silent Princess

My shoulders shake as I find my jacket and purse like a ghost set on an automatic path, then get out of the house, hoping the few hours I have to myself will somehow add a little joy to my life. Or something to remind me that I am not about to lose the only person who has ever truly loved me.

What if he⁠—

I shut my eyes hard, sitting on the bus, watching the road unfold, trees alternating with the light piercing between them, catching my skin. A change of scenery will do me good. To forget, even for an hour, that I could soon lose it all. Everything happens for a reason, Dad said. But why do I feel that it is not true? That an unfair prophecy is ruling my life and forcing me to drive with no brakes at full speed toward a cliff? What is waiting for me behind this mountain of misery I cannot seem to climb without losing pieces of myself?

My commute ends in the city center, and I walk for five minutes before finding a coffee shop I saw once when Mara sent me to buy her coffee while she was shopping.

I enter the cozy shop, dried flowers hanging from the ceiling, wood tables and metal chairs spread through the small space with around eight tables at most. There is a counter with a glass display case showing dozens of pretty treats, from chocolate cake to strawberry cheesecake, and I salivate at the sight of them. I wish I could afford it. And those fancy lattes. Hmm. I can almost imagine their taste. In the meantime, green tea will have to do. I am about to order when a voice echoes from behind me. Familiar. Low. Commanding. A voice I could recognize anywhere, imprinted in my mind like an iron brand. This day could not be any more unsettling. I freeze on the spot, my senses on alert, warning me like a deer caught in the eyes of a lion.

“Miss Brooks, I did not expect to find you here.”

This cannot be real. Tristan Ashford is behind me.

Tristan

Silky onyx hair, falling just below her shoulders, unaware of my presence. I try to resist it, but her scent, the exact same as yesterday, invades my senses, and I remain behind her, towering over her small height, observing. There is still someone ordering in front of her while her head angles toward the cake display. I could have gone into any other coffee shop, but this one was the closest. A whimsical little nonsense of a place that smells like fresh coffee beans from the outside. What were the odds of finding her here? I flex my hand, the impossible urge to touch her nearly overcoming me. She fidgets with her fingers as if she can sense my presence unsettling her. Her body and mind are aware of me. The air in the room sucked through an invisible straw. And I cannot resist it. It has been a tiring day, and I want–no, I need a place where I can act like myself.

“Miss Brooks, I did not expect to find you here,” I say, lowering my voice just enough to speak above her ear while keeping enough distance not to touch her. Her shoulders tense, and the clock freezes as I wait for her response, the voices and noise around us playing like a film in the background.

Ever so slightly, she glances behind her, as if she did not truly believe in it. Her brown doe eyes, wide and worried. My world falls off its axis as she claims my name silently, “Tristan.” Her gaze lands on my mouth for a fraction of a second, then flicks away, pink kissing the apples of her cheeks.

“What can I get you?” I ask.

She shakes her head several times, signing, “I’m good. I don’t need…”

“I am sorry if that came out like a question. I meant, what can I order for you, Miss Brooks?”

“E-L-L-A,” she signs, spelling each letter of her name as if I could ever forget it. Trust me, sweetheart, I’ll remember in every lifetime. “Please, call me Ella.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll go after you. You must be busy. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.” How strange. I frown, wondering who on earth made her think her time is worth less than anyone else’s.

“Welcome to Mimosa Coffee Shop. What can I get you?” the woman behind the counter asks. Twenties, two braids, red hair, freckles, denim overalls, with a hint of antsy energy and candor of someone you would give your keys away to water your plants. Innocuous, my brain labels, unable to stop categorizing people.

“Ella?” I say out loud, watching her meet my eyes before lowering hers to the floor, nibbling at her lip.

Her fingers tremble as she signs, “A green tea, please. You really don’t have to.”

“Did you eat this morning?” I sign, her skin too pale for her natural complexion. She shakes her head, and a jolt of anger rises through me, though I try my best to hide it. “We’ll take a green tea, black coffee, pancakes, and a slice of cheesecake,” I say, sliding my black Amex into the machine.

“All righty. You can sit, and I’ll bring it to you.” The woman says, eyes on her screen.

“Thank you,” I grunt as Ella offers her a genuine, soft smile. My phone vibrates, and I glance at it.

Nate: Found new intel. Call ASAP.

My thumb brushes the call button before stopping. Ella has just sat in the corner next to the bay window, choosing the side with the cushioned brown bench. There is a chair facing her, dried flowers and menus on the table.

I could leave. I could let her enjoy her tea and food in peace.

Still, I don’t. My feet move in her direction, the Vodianovs, my empire, and the strategies carefully chosen this morning all sliding into the background of my mind. A few minutes will not hurt, right? It will not change anything in my carefully arranged schedule, will it? Hell will always be there waiting for me anyway. I can still steal a few minutes with an angel. It is not as if it could change my life in some irreversible way. It is only coffee with a girl as beautiful as the moon, as mesmerizing as a siren.

My hand clasps the back of the chair, and I sit as the waitress serves our order. Ella’s hands circle the white cup of green tea, and I lean back, careful not to touch her feet beneath the table.

She fits beautifully here, with all the plants hanging from the ceiling, the flowery wallpaper, vintage frames, and classical piano music. Whereas I am a block of concrete standing in a flower field. My dark suit contrasts with the fairy-tale spirit of it all. She is wearing a white long-sleeved shirt that clings to her skin enough to make me look away as a car passes outside. Does she ever wear makeup?

Whether she does or not should not matter to me in the slightest, but the absence of it seems to betray an obvious lack of sleep. And I get the unsettling intuition that no one sees it but me. Does she have someone to take care of her?

“When did you last eat?” I sign.

She frowns, signing back, “Why did you put all that money in my bag?” I lick my lips, watching her swirl her teabag.