Romantic Novel 9: Messages in the Cafe by Noor Azur
- Noor Azur
- 5 days ago
- 5 min read
I'm going to tell you something I haven't told anyone: I have a secret. Well... two.
The first one... I don't even know how to say it. My boss asked me not to mention it to absolutely anyone. Zero. Total silence. But I need to get it off my chest, even if it's just a little. I can't give you all the details; you'll have to settle for the version I can tell.
Here goes: After weeks of experiencing what could be hell for any HR manager—at a high-end restaurant company with a dozen locations, operating with barely half the staff and having used up our entire pool of substitute employees—we finally discovered who was sabotaging the company. And you won't believe who it is. I still can't believe it. Yesterday, when I found out, I poured myself a shot of tequila. Well... two. OK, three. I just couldn't believe it. And the worst part is, I can't tell anyone, not even Galia, my best friend. I have to swallow the secret and smile like nothing's wrong.
And now… my second secret: I’m a home organizing enthusiast. I already said it. And yes, I have a secret TikTok account where I upload videos of myself cleaning and organizing my house, and where I also stalk other accounts like it’s an Olympic sport. Yes. That’s the second secret. I get home from work, drop my bag, kick off my heels, collapse on the sofa… and go inside. And I don’t come out. I immerse myself in the hypnotic ASMR of people refilling dispensers, folding sheets with almost poetic skill, wiping a table with a sponge until it shines. And I breathe. I don’t know how to explain it: it’s like tidying up your inner self by watching someone else tidy up their outer self.
If you're looking for a story with a few laughs, big surprises, and a slow-burn romance, keep reading. I promise you that sometimes, to find order, you first have to let everything fall apart.
Prologue CHLOE
Summer 2024
I forced myself to keep my back straight against the leather chair, my hands clasped in my lap. "Who are you?" I thought as my nails dug into my palms under the table. Who was this stranger talking about algorithms and consumer preferences?
Standing before me was the man who, for the past six months, had made me believe in the "magic" of fate, adjusting a pair of glasses I'd never seen him wear. The man who slipped between my sheets, always dressed in worn jeans and 90s rock band tees, was now wearing Oxford shoes so shiny I could see my own idiotic face reflected in them.
Diego looked at me. It was a second, a fraction of time in which his gray eyes met mine. Then, he turned back to the screen and began to speak.
“The future of hospitality isn’t service, it’s prediction,” Diego’s voice echoed in the room. It was no longer the warm, husky voice that whispered in my ear on Saturday mornings; it was the voice of a businessman presenting a multi-million dollar project. I only knew the version of the twenty-eight-year-old barista, passionate about coffee and video games.
The logo appeared on the screen: SensoLab .
"Damn you," I thought, feeling a bitter taste rise in my throat. I had fallen for another man who only showed me one side of his life; Diego edited his reality so that I only saw what he wanted me to see.
"SensoLab doesn't just read data," he continued, moving with a confidence that made my stomach churn. "It learns sensory patterns. It knows what the customer wants before the customer even says it."
I remembered our Sunday afternoon chats, sprawled on the sofa in my apartment. I'd tell him about my stress, how difficult it was managing the chefs, the pressure from Mosi. He'd listen attentively, ask me questions... God, now I saw it. It wasn't romantic interest. He was doing market research. He was gathering information directly from Human Resources to refine his proposal.
I felt used. I felt like a pathetic spectator of my own downfall. Silas and Mosi were enthusiastic; I saw Mosi nodding, fascinated by the software's ability to increase the average ticket price. They were asking questions about the implementation, about data security. And every time Diego answered with that charming self-assurance, I felt a violent urge to jump onto the table, kick his projector, and grab him by the neck until he explained when he decided I was the stepping stone to his promotion.
Diego gestured toward the screen and a dynamic graphic appeared. A sensory map. I was Client 0 .
It didn't have my name on it, but I recognized every detail. The arrival via the Andino Reserve at 7:23 am. The citrus notes for stress relief. The perfect balance of bitterness. He was exposing my intimacy, my palate, and my weaknesses to the entire board as if I were an insect under a microscope.
"And how did you get such precise data for the prototype?" Mosi asked, impressed.
Diego smiled. It was a brief, professional smile, the smile of a man who knows he has won. He looked at me for barely a second, a fraction of a second in which his eyes met mine again.
—Direct observation—he replied simply. —Designing experiences requires… proximity.
"Proximity." That was his word to describe the kisses on my terrace. That was his word for the hours he spent listening to me talk about my personal things. Now that closeness burned me; every caress had been an analysis, every confession a line of code. He didn't love me. He was debugging .
I felt my blood boil. I wanted to get up, overturn the table, and wipe that smug look off his face with a slap. I wanted to scream at him that he was a fraud, a social climber who had used my bed as a springboard to get to this meeting.
"Breathe, Chloe," I told myself, even though the air burned my lungs. "Don't give him the show he's expecting. Smile. Let him think he's in control. We'll get out of this meeting room."
I stared at the black marker on the table and imagined stabbing him in the jugular. He kept talking about "scalability" and "markets," but to me it was just static. In my head, I was already planning his funeral.
"It's brilliant, Morrison," said Mosi, my boss, tapping the table. "Simply brilliant."
Diego nodded, feigning humility, as he closed his laptop. The meeting was over. He had landed the contract. I had acquired a new scar.
My colleagues started applauding when the presentation ended. Mosi stood up to shake his hand, and I felt like my legs had turned to jelly. I had to get out of there. The urge to run, to escape this charade, was almost uncontrollable. I wanted to scream at him that he was a liar, an opportunist, an ambitious little man who used sex and affection to bypass protocol and get straight to the top.
"Excellent work, Diego," Silas said, turning to me. "Chloe, you have a real eye for friendships. This software is going to revolutionize the holding company."
I forced a smile that must have looked more like a grimace of pain. I said nothing. If I opened my mouth, words wouldn't come out; fire would.
I stood up with all the dignity I could muster, adjusting my pencil skirt as if it were armor. I left the room without looking back, feeling his eyes fixed on my back.
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Story written by Noor Azur 💖
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