<<<< Present Day >>>>
As Miranda sat in her quiet bedroom after Benjamin left, she finally understood something she had ignored for years: Her marriage had not broken because of one mistake. It had been breaking long before the affair, Long before the foreign man, Long before desire found its way into her life. Her marriage had been dying in silence, in routine and in loneliness. The DNA test was only the final blow.
Miranda placed her hand over her own belly, and remembered when she used to imagine having a child. A family. A life filled with laughter instead of silence but then she wondered if having a child would really change anything. She had always wished for something more in her life. She never expected to get it. Certainly not where she found it and definitely not in the arms of a man who walked into her café one rainy day and smiled at her like she was sunlight.
She drew her knees to her chest and whispered into the empty room, "I never meant for it to end like this."
But endings don't ask for permission, they arrive when the truth can no longer stay buried.
<<<< FLASH BACK >>>>
The bell above the café door chimed—a sharp, bright sound that always tugged Miranda back into herself, no matter how deep her thoughts wandered. That Monday morning, the familiar ring grounded her like a breath of warm air.
The café—her café—was the one place that felt like it belonged to her.
Her creation.
Her sanctuary.
A world where she wasn't a wife living in a polished museum of a home, where she wasn't daughter to parents who measured love in obedience, where she wasn't the quiet, dutiful woman expected to disappear into routine.
Here, she mattered.
Here, she was the Boss.
The shop was small and imperfect, tucked between a florist and an old bookstore. The wooden floors creaked in the mornings, the faint smell of cinnamon lived in the walls, and sunlight spilled across the tables in soft, golden rectangles but Miranda loved every flaw.
When she arrived at dawn each day, she would stand behind the counter, fingers brushing over the espresso machine. She warmed the milk, brewed the beans, wiped the counters, and arranged pastries with a tenderness she had never known she possessed.
This was the place where she existed fully. The place where she wasn't performing.
Her husband didn't understand the café. To him, it was a small, harmless hobby.
To her—it was like oxygen.
On one particular morning, long before everything fell apart, Miranda leaned over the counter wiping a mug, her movements slow and thoughtful. The café was still closed, the "OPEN" sign flipped inward, waiting.
Her chest felt heavy.
Her sleep had been fitful again.
Benjamin had left for another business trip the night before—Japan this time. He kissed her forehead before leaving, as always, with the familiar, distant gentleness she once mistook for affection.
"Take care, Miranda."
"I will. Call me when you land."
"Mm."
He didn't look back as he pulled his suitcase to the door.
When the door shut behind him, Miranda's shoulders slumped without her permission. She stared at the wood grain of the door for a long time, feeling foolish for wanting more.
At some point she whispered into the empty hallway: "Why am I so tired of it all?"
She didn't know who she was asking.
Perhaps herself.
Perhaps the universe.
Perhaps the husband who was emotionally oceans away.
When she opened the shop at eight, the rush of familiar faces entered with the morning breeze.
The elderly couple who always sat by the window, Students with laptop bags, Office workers grabbing quick coffees before the day claimed them, Mothers with toddlers, Young lovers holding hands. Miranda loved watching them—their laughter, their affection, their shared routines. She envied the small touches: fingers brushing, a lingering kiss, someone reaching across the table to tuck a stray lock of hair behind a partner's ear.
She watched those gestures the way a starving person might watch someone eat.
Her regular customers adored her kindness, her warmth, her welcoming smile.
But none of them knew how hollow she sometimes felt. How the smile she wore could crumble the moment the cafe closed, How the warmth she offered others rarely found its way back to her.
During a less busy period around noon, the door chimed again—and this time, it was her younger sister, Camille.
"Afternoon, Minnie," Camille whispered, slipping behind the counter to steal a hug.
Miranda smiled softly. "Shouldn't you be in class?"
"Lecture cancelled." Camille leaned back, scanning her with sharp eyes. "You look tired."
"To you, I always look tired."
"That's how it looks like though," Camille muttered.
Miranda cleared her throat, pressing a cup into her hands. "Your vanilla latte."
Camille hugged it gratefully "Thanks darling"
Miranda Smiled, "On the House as usual"
Her parents didn't visit the café. Not even once, they said the shop was "beneath the family." "Unnecessary." "A distraction from her real duties, bearing a Child."
But her siblings—Camille and her older brother Eugene Dalton—came whenever they could. They visited just to check on her and frequently visited her or invited her over for some events or outings.
They weren't perfect, but they loved her quietly, rebelliously. Just like she loved them.
That afternoon, the sky darkened suddenly, clouds sliding over the sun like heavy velvet drapery. Rain began to sprinkle, tapping against the windows in a fast, uneven rhythm.
Miranda turned on the warm lamps, creating a cocoon of soft light within the café.
The bell chimed.
Miranda glanced up—
—and her breath caught.
A stranger stood dripping rainwater onto the welcome mat. He was tall, Broad-shouldered, Sun-kissed skin. Dark, slightly damp curls that clung to his forehead. Eyes the colour of aged whiskey—warm, sharp, smouldering.
He carried a camera in one hand, rain droplets clinging to its strap. He looked out of place in the small café, like a vivid brushstroke across a grey canvas.
Miranda blinked, taken aback by the sheer presence of him.
He stepped forward, voice warm and textured with a foreign lilt.
"Good Afternoon," he said softly.
Her lips parted. "Y-yes."
He smiled, a slow, devastating curl of his mouth that made something deep inside her clench.
"Finally," he murmured. "Some warmth."
His gaze drifted across the café before settling back on her.
Heat rushed into her chest, unwelcome, unexpected.
She swallowed, forcing her professional smile. "What can I get you?"
"why don't you recommend something for me." He paused, lifting his eyes to her again. "it should be warm and sweet. Like you"
Her cheeks warmed. "Sweet?"
"Yes," he said. "Sweet. Like you."
Her breath stumbled.
He said it so casually. So confidently.
Like he was allowed to say such things.
Like he wasn't a stranger.
Like she wasn't a married woman.
"Excuse me?" she whispered.
He shrugged lightly, a playful glint in his eyes. "I can always tell when someone makes good coffee. And when someone…"
His gaze dipped to her lips.
"…is lovely to look at."
Miranda froze. Because no one—no one—had ever said something like that to her, Not even her husband. Her fingers trembled as she prepared the drink. She could feel the weight of his gaze resting on her like warm hands. She hated how her body reacted, the flutter low in her stomach. The heat blooming in her chest and the strange, electric pull towards him.
This wasn't her.
This wasn't right.
She forced herself to breathe. He's just being friendly. Flirtatious. Many men are like this, she told herself.
But it didn't stop the sensation of being… seen. When she handed him the drink, Chai latte, with cinnamon powder sprinkled on top of the creamy foam, his fingers brushed hers, barely but the touch travelled all the way up her arm in a slow, molten wave.
"Thank you, Beautiful," he whispered.
She stepped back abruptly, flustered. "Enjoy your drink."
His smile deepened. "I will."
He took a seat near the window, sipping his coffee and reviewing the photos on his camera. Occasionally, he looked up at her with quiet interest.
Every glance was a spark.
Miranda tried to ignore him, she cleaned, rearranged pastries, checked receipts, but her thoughts were a tangled mess. Sure, he was good looking with black hair and grey eyes just like Ben, her husband, but still it shouldn't warrant her reacting like this? Why did his presence make her heartbeat thrum in her ears?
Why did she feel… awake? Awake in a way she hadn't in years.
Her husband's gentle forehead kisses felt like distant memories. The passion she had never experienced fluttered around her like a restless bird, she felt like a kid who had a crush.
She told herself it meant nothing, that it was just a harmless encounter.
When the rain eased into a soft drizzle, the man stood. He slung his camera over his shoulder and approached the counter again.
"Your Latte," he said, tapping his cup lightly, "is the best I've had in this city."
"Oh," Miranda breathed, startled. "Thank you."
He held out his hand, she hesitated then placed her hand in his. His grip was warm. Firm. Confident.
"My name is Rafael," he said.
Her heart briefly paused. Miranda. You're married. Stop this. Don't engage. But her body stayed still, her hand still in his.
"Miranda," she whispered.
His eyes softened. "Miranda," he repeated, savoring the name. "Beautiful."
He released her hand slowly—too slowly—and stepped back.
"I'll see you again," he said, voice confident, almost certain.
Before she could respond, he pushed open the door.
The bell chimed and the door closed.
The scent of rain and spices lingered in the air.
As Miranda stood frozen, she taught this would be the last time she would see him but she was wrong. He would return and his presence would change everything.
And nothing—not duty, not fear, not marriage—would stop what was coming.