“Max,” Romy said, her voice dangerously quiet, “is your boss, the one who’s in Dubai for a yacht race, the infamous Maximilian Royston?” Max paused, the aroma of instant ramen momentarily thickening the air. He turned, his easy smile faltering, then smoothly reforming into something a little too casual. He glanced at the cufflink, then back at Romy, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Oh, *that* M. Royston. Yeah, he’s my employer. Not a bad guy, for a man who considers a gold-leafed yacht a 'starter boat'. Bit of a slob, though.” He gestured vaguely at his pristine kitchen counter. “Leaves his expensive trinkets everywhere.” He took the cufflink from her, turning it over in his fingers with an air of mild curiosity. “Found this little beauty tucked under a floorboard in his previous penthouse. Figured it’d fetch a decent price at a pawn shop. You know, for a rainy day fund. Haven’t had the chance yet.” He tossed it lightly in his hand, then pocketed it with a nonchalant shrug, as if discussing spare change. Romy stared, unblinking. The sheer audacity was almost admirable. He hadn’t even bothered with a believable story, just a blatant, half-baked lie that screamed, *‘I think you’re too dumb or too desperate to question this.’* And yet, a part of her, the part that had seen too many promises crumble into dust, found a twisted sort of respect for his bluntness. No flowery excuses, no elaborate cover-up. Just a simple, ‘I’m stealing from my obscenely wealthy boss, and I don’t care if you know.’ “Right,” Romy deadpanned, crossing her arms. “Because a man who lives in the Zenith Tower and owns a yacht worthy of a small nation state is known for leaving solid gold family heirlooms lying around for his drivers to pilfer. Very ‘man of the people’ of him.” Max chuckled, an unbothered sound. “It’s called resourcefulness, Romy. And a good driver knows his boss’s habits. His ‘absent-minded generosity,’ as I like to call it.” He winked. “Don’t worry, it’s not going into our shared housing fund. That’s strictly above board. This is my private enterprise.” Romy just shook her head, a dry laugh escaping her. The man was infuriatingly charming, even in his transparent deceit. “Fine. Just don’t get caught. I have enough drama in my life without being an accessory to petty larceny.” Hours later, the aroma of Max’s surprisingly edible instant noodles long gone, Romy found herself navigating the polished chrome and aggressively verdant foliage of ‘The Veridian Sprout,’ Oakhaven City’s most exclusive brunch establishment. The kind of place where the avocado toast cost more than her monthly utility bill, and the ambient noise was a carefully curated symphony of clinking artisanal cutlery and hushed, self-important pronouncements. Gemma Prentiss, Romy’s literary agent and supposed best friend, was already at their banquette, radiating an aura of effortless chic in a silk slip dress the color of seafoam. Her smile was impeccable, her eyes, however, held a glint Romy knew too well: appraisal, not warmth. “Romy, darling!” Gemma trilled, extending a manicured hand tipped with perfectly sculpted gel nails. “You made it! And you actually managed to acquire something beyond an asbestos coating. Impressive.” Romy managed a tight smile. “I aim to please. And by ‘please,’ I mean ‘not completely embarrass you in front of your brunch set.’” She slid into the seat opposite Gemma, feeling acutely aware of her own practical linen slacks and slightly-too-worn cardigan amidst the surrounding peacockery. Gemma’s thumb twitched over her phone screen, a subtle motion Romy missed as she scanned the menu, wincing at the price of a single poached egg. Gemma was, at that moment, typing furiously: *‘Just arrived. Looks like she wrestled a badger. Max is definitely a broke driver. Laughable. Dallin will adore this.’* “So,” Gemma began, her voice dropping conspiratorial, “about ‘The Chronos Weaver’.” She leaned forward, her expression morphing into one of grave concern that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Sweetheart, I love your passion. I do. But… it’s just not commercially viable. Time-traveling librarians solving ancient magical conspiracies? It’s a hard sell in this market. Publishers want escapism, not a master’s thesis.” Romy’s stomach tightened. ‘The Chronos Weaver’ was her soul, her magnum opus, the novel she’d poured five years of her life into, the one that proved she wasn’t just a ghostwriter. “But it’s unique, Gemma,” Romy argued, her voice betraying a hint of the desperation she usually kept locked away. “It’s got intellectual depth, a strong female lead, and a rich, intricate world. Isn’t that what people are looking for?” Gemma tutted, waving a dismissive hand. “People are looking for ‘How to Be an Alpha-Mindset Mogul’ by Brock ‘The Boss’ Bronson, or ‘My Journey from Zero Followers to Seven Figures’ by Candace ‘Candy’ Sparkle. You know, the kind of garbage that sells a million copies before anyone realizes it’s just recycled platitudes. That’s where the money is, Romy.” Gemma then pulled a glossy, bound manuscript from her oversized handbag. The cover, blindingly pink and gold, featured a heavily filtered influencer posing with a tiny dog. The title, emblazoned in glittery script, read: ‘Sparkle & Hustle: My Guide to Manifesting Millions and Maintaining Flawless Skin.’ “This,” Gemma declared, pushing the monstrosity across the table, “is your next project. It’s for Sienna ‘Sassy’ Stardust. She needs a ghostwriter for her ‘empowerment’ memoir. The advance is… substantial. Enough to get you out of that glorified shoebox you call an apartment, even if your new husband is a little light in the pockets.” She smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes. Romy stared at the pink horror. “Sienna Stardust? The one who got famous for ‘manifesting’ a private jet after her parents bought her one? Gemma, this is… this is everything I despise about the industry.” “It’s also a guaranteed bestseller, Romy. And it comes with a very robust contract.” Gemma slid a thick packet of papers across the table, its legal clauses practically radiating menace. “Sign this, and you’re back on track. Refuse, and frankly, I don’t see a future for you in Oakhaven City publishing. Not with me as your agent, anyway.” Before Romy could formulate a suitably scathing retort, a familiar, insufferably cheerful voice cut through the genteel din. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite struggling novelist!” Irritation grated against Romy’s ribcage. Dallin Royce, perfectly tailored in a bespoke suit the color of a freshly minted dollar bill, strode towards their table, a blindingly shiny blonde woman clinging to his arm. His smile was a performative sneer, designed to imply superiority and pity in equal measure. “Dallin,” Romy said, her voice flat. “Fancy seeing you here. Lost your way to the peasants’ section, have we?” Dallin laughed, a booming, self-congratulatory sound. “Just checking in on old friends. Heard you got yourself a… chauffeur. How’s the ‘working class hero’ thing going for you, Romy? Still living in that charming little asbestos cottage?” He nudged his fiancée, whose vacant smile faltered slightly at the mention of asbestos. Just then, a crisp, unassuming voice interjected. “Apologies, ma’am. Your car is ready whenever you are.” Max stood beside their table, dressed in a simple, dark attendant's uniform that somehow made him look both professional and utterly forgettable. He held a silver tray with a single, perfectly brewed espresso, which he subtly offered to Gemma. His gaze, however, was fixed on Dallin, a polite but unwavering intensity in his eyes that made the air around them prickle. “Oh, you must be the help,” Dallin drawled, taking a sip of his own artisanal iced coffee. “Good boy. Keep the car running.” He gestured dismissively with his cup, oblivious to the subtle shift in Max’s posture. Max inclined his head, a picture of deferential service. “Indeed, sir. And a good passenger is always careful with hot beverages, wouldn’t you agree? Especially over such… pristine trousers.” His gaze dropped momentarily to Dallin’s designer slacks, then back up, a silent, almost imperceptible challenge in his eyes. Dallin, unnerved by the attendant's quiet intensity, scoffed. “What, are you implying I’m clumsy?” He tightened his grip on his iced coffee cup, intending a defiant, dramatic gesture. But Max’s words, and that unnerving look, had thrown him. His hand twitched. The cup slipped. A dark, scalding torrent of coffee, complete with melting ice cubes, erupted over the pristine fabric of Dallin’s bespoke trousers, soaking them completely. Dallin shrieked, jumping up, his face a mask of outrage and discomfort. “My suit! You clumsy oaf! You made me do that!” Max merely bowed slightly. “My deepest apologies, sir. Perhaps I should fetch a towel? Or would you prefer to simply… air them out?” A hint of something dangerous, almost a smirk, played at the corner of his lips. Gemma, meanwhile, watched the spectacle with a detached fascination, then turned back to Romy, pulling out a pen. “As entertaining as this is,” she said, her voice utterly devoid of emotion, “we still have a contract to discuss. Sign this today, Romy, or your career in Oakhaven City is legally finished.”

Brunch and Betrayal