A Cup Away

Carl Woode had built an empire before he turned thirty-five, but the one thing he had never built never even attempted to was faith in love.

From the top floor of Woode Enterprises, the city stretched endlessly beneath him, a glittering sea of steel and glass. Carl stood behind the wide glass window of his office, hands clasped behind his back, tailored suit pressed to perfection. The world below moved at a pace he dictated contracts signed, companies acquired, lives altered by a stroke of his pen. Control was something Carl Woode understood intimately. It was something he trusted.

Love, on the other hand, was chaos.

He had learned that lesson early in life.

Carl still remembered the night his mother left. He had been thirteen, sitting halfway down the grand staircase of their mansion, listening to his parents argue in hushed but venomous tones. His father, Darius Woode, had sounded furious and wounded. His mother had sounded tired so terribly tired. When the door finally slammed shut and her footsteps faded into nothing, Carl knew something irreparable had broken.

She never came back.

From that night on, Carl made a silent promise to himself: love was a weakness, a lie people told themselves before walking away. His mother hadn't been poor, abused, or desperate. She had simply chosen not to stay. If love could disappear that easily, then it was never real to begin with.

So Carl hardened himself.

Years later, he ruled boardrooms with the same emotional distance he had perfected as a teenager. Women admired him ,his wealth, his power, his sharp jawline and cold gray eyes but he never let any of them stay long enough to matter. Relationships were transactions. Temporary. Replaceable.

Just like love.

That morning, Carl was already irritated before stepping into the elevator. A delayed meeting, an incompetent junior executive, and a bitter cup of coffee from the café downstairs had pushed his patience thin. He hated inefficiency. He hated mistakes.

And he especially hated when things didn't go his way.

The café near his office building was small, warm, and perpetually busy, a stark contrast to the sterile luxury of Woode Enterprises. Carl rarely went there himself; his assistant usually handled his coffee. But today, pressed for time and already annoyed, he walked in.

The bell above the door chimed softly.

The scent of fresh pastries and roasted coffee beans filled the air. Soft music played in the background. Carl approached the counter, eyes already scanning his phone.

"Good morning," a voice said.

It was calm. Polite. Unassuming.

Carl didn't look up. "Black coffee. No sugar. No cream. And make it quick."

There was a pause.

"I'm sorry," the voice replied evenly, "but you'll need to wait your turn."

Carl's jaw tightened. He finally lifted his gaze.

Behind the counter stood a young woman with warm brown eyes and dark hair tied loosely behind her head. She wore a simple apron dusted with flour, and there was something disarmingly calm about