His Twin Wants Me Too

The espresso machine hissed, sputtered, then let out one last tired puff of steam before shutting down. The smell of coffee lingered in the air—warm, bitter, clinging to my clothes like it always did. I wiped down the counter again, even though it was already spotless. My hands needed something to do, some rhythm to quiet the restless hum under my skin.

Outside, rain drizzled in lazy streaks across the windows, smearing the neon lights from the street into rivers of color. The city always looked softer in the rain, like its edges blurred on purpose. Inside, the café felt like a pocket of calm—dim, warm, safe. Closing time had come and gone, but one booth was still occupied.

The far booth.

That’s where he sat.

The man didn’t belong here. Everything about him clashed with the cracked leather seats, the chipped sugar jars, the faint hum of old jazz still playing in the background. His presence alone reshaped the room. The tailored suit that clung to his frame looked sharp enough to cut glass, his watch gleamed whenever the light caught it, and his posture—lazy yet controlled—spoke of someone who owned more than just the space he occupied. He wasn’t drinking his whiskey; he was holding it like a crown.

My eyes lingered longer than they should have.

Across from him sat a woman dressed like a jewel in the wrong setting. Sequins scattered the light every time she moved, glittering like stars desperate to be seen. Her laughter was high and airy, but it carried strain, like she was pulling it up from an empty well. She leaned forward, twirling her hair, lips painted in a perfect shade of red. On the surface, she looked radiant. But her eyes… her eyes told a different story. They looked tired. Caged.

“Don’t.”

The word snapped me back.

My mother’s voice, sharp but quiet. She was unplugging the steamer, her back stiff like she already knew where my attention had gone.

“Don’t what?”

She flicked her gaze toward the booth, then back at me. “Don’t get involved with people like that.”

I frowned. “People like what?”

Her movements slowed, deliberate. “Men like him. Trouble follows them. Always.”

I wanted to argue, but deep down I knew she wasn’t wrong. Trouble wasn’t just in his smile—it lived in the stillness of his posture, in the deliberate way he looked at the world like it belonged to him. People didn’t just glance at him. They noticed. They remembered. Maybe they even feared him.

And yet… I couldn’t stop staring.

I don’t know what I was looking for—an answer, a reason, something that explained the magnet in my chest. All I knew was that something about him demanded my attention, even when I tried to resist.

It wasn’t until he reached across the table and grabbed the woman’s wrist that my chest tightened. Not gentle. Not loving. Possessive. Her smile faltered—just a flicker, but I caught it.

My mother must have noticed me freeze, because her voice sharpened again. “Amelia. Stay out of it.”

But my feet were already moving.

The space between the counter and the booth felt longer than it had ever been. Every step carried weight, every breath felt shallow. I knew I was stepping into something I couldn’t undo.

I stopped at the edge of the booth. “Is everything alright here?” My throat was dry, the words cracked like glass, but I forced them out.

The woman’s eyes flicked up to mine—desperate, searching. There it was. Not just unease. Not just discomfort. A plea.

The man turned his head slowly, like the movement itself was a performance. His eyes found mine. Dark. Sharp. Cold. A gaze that stripped away pretense and saw straight through skin and bone. I forgot how to breathe. That look wasn’t casual—it was predatory.

“We’re fine,” he said smoothly, his voice low and steady, but his grip tightened on her wrist.

“She doesn’t look fine.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Too sharp. Too bold. My mother’s warning still echoed in my head, but it was too late to pull them back.

The woman’s fingers twitched, a tiny flinch she couldn’t hide. It was enough.

I did something reckless. Something I knew I’d regret later. I reached forward and pried his hand off hers.

Heat shot up my arm the moment I touched him. His skin was iron, his strength coiled and dangerous. For a split second, I thought he’d crush my hand just to prove he could. But then—something flickered across his perfect features. Surprise. He wasn’t used to being challenged.

The woman didn’t wait for the moment to drag on. She scrambled out of the booth, clutching her purse to her chest. Her heels clicked sharp against the tile as she muttered something about leaving. A few seconds later, the door swung shut behind her, the jingle of the bell fading into the rain.

Silence.

Just me and him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t chase her. He simply leaned back, one arm draped lazily across the booth, eyes locked on me. His lips curved—not into a smile, not really, but something sharper. Something amused.

“You’ve got no idea who you’re dealing with,” he said softly. His voice was dangerous, velvet wrapped around a knife.

My pulse hammered against my ribs. Fear prickled under my skin, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. “Maybe not. But I know what I saw.”

His head tilted slightly, studying me like I was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to find. For a heartbeat, I thought he might lash out. But then… he smirked. Not kind. Not reassuring. Intrigued.

“You’re bold,” he murmured, his voice a low hum. “Too bold.”

The words should have scared me off. Maybe they did. But underneath the fear, something else stirred—curiosity.

Who was this man? And why did I feel like this wasn’t the last time our paths would cross?

I didn’t know it then, but I had just stepped into something much bigger than me.

And it was only the beginning.

The past few days had been a blur of restless scrolling, endless job listings, and the gnawing dread that I was destined to serve lattes until my bones ached. Mom, ever the queen of passive disapproval, had mostly gone quiet, but the silence between us was its own kind of punishment. Every sigh, every carefully averted glance while she polished the espresso machine screamed louder than words: Amelia, you’re drifting.

She wasn’t wrong.

My savings were circling the drain, the future looked bleaker by the day, and each rejection email landed like a punch. I’d started to wonder if the universe was playing a cruel joke: Entry-level position! Must have five years’ senior experience. Oh, sure. Let me invent a time machine real quick.

And then, on Friday morning, everything changed.

Not with a rejection. Not with another bill. With an email.

When I saw the sender—Richard Enterprises—my heart nearly launched itself out of my ri