Coffee Break (Book 1)

Celestine’s leg shook as she waited for her interview in the stark, fluorescent-lit waiting area. Keyboard clicks, echoing footsteps, ringing phones, and chatter dulled her senses. The metallic air and identical plastic chairs heightened her unease. Her heartbeat pounded, drowning out everything else.

She missed her name being called until the person next to her tapped her shoulder, snapping her out of her trance. She offered a weak smile, murmured thanks, and entered the interview room, knocking softly before opening the door.

“E-excuse me,” Celestine stammered, her gaze fixed on the floor, head bowed nearly to her chest. The room paused; her tension thickened the silence. “You may sit down.” Stay calm, she thought. Celestine met the confident, stern gaze of an older woman—schoolmarm-like in a black turtleneck, pearl necklace, and thick glasses.

The woman’s uptight air sent a shiver down Celestine’s spine. She took a deep breath, unclenched her fists, and sat. The woman neither stood nor offered a handshake or introduction. As she cleared her throat and skimmed the documents, Celestine noticed a neat stack of papers and the lingering aroma of coffee.

“I’ve read your résumé, Celestine Lucienne Bellini,” the woman said, making Celestine jump slightly. “It’s impressive, considering your educational background. But I suppose I’m willing to give you a chance.” Her eyes scrutinized every inch of the interviewee. Without another word, she launched into a barrage of questions—rapid-fire, pointed, unrelenting.

Celestine flinched at first, feeling like she was being interrogated. She stumbled over her words, cheeks crimson, but gradually found her rhythm and answered the schoolmarm’s questions with a speck of confidence. To her relief, the woman flickered a small smile, nodding lightly in approval. But her internal elation didn’t last long.

“Ms. Bellini,” the woman said, flat and unyielding, “these next questions are critical. How you answer will determine if you are fit for the position—or if you’ve wasted my time.” Celestine dampened her dry mouth and swallowed. “Y-yes, ma’am.” She braced herself as the tension heightened. The interview now hinged on her responses, fueling both determination and anxiety.

The woman’s gaze sharpened. “If you caught a colleague taking credit for your work, what would you do?”

“I... umm... I guess I’d tell my supervisor? And maybe keep notes so it doesn’t happen again.” She answered, fidgeting with her sweaty hands.

The woman pressed her lips into a thin line. “Very well. You have three impossible deadlines and zero support. How would you handle it?”

“I... I’d try to sort out the most important first and focus on those. Then I’d do my best to finish the rest.”

“Would you follow orders you completely disagree with?”

“I think I’d try to follow them, but maybe suggest a different approach if I thought that would help?”

The woman set the papers aside and removed her thick glasses, letting them rest on the table. Disappointment flashed across her face as she leaned back slightly. “Ms. Celestine Lucienne Bellini,” she said slowly, “you are capable and intelligent, but you lack decisiveness and confidence that the position requires. You hesitate under pressure, and your answers, despite your honesty, are overcautious and uncertain.” Her stomach dropped, and any small ounce of hope she had evaporated.

The schoolmarm watched her struggle to keep a straight face—her mouth opening slightly, as if to defy the judgment. “I’m not going to waste my time with pleasantries or false hope to spare your feelings. Ms. Bellini, you didn’t pass. Thank you for your time.” She pointed toward the door behind her. “You can see yourself out.”

Celestine couldn’t move at first; her feet were planted to the floor, her blood running cold with humiliation. As she lowered her eyes, her gaze landed on a gold-plated nametag she had missed, pinned to the woman’s turtleneck.

Victoria.

Gathering the last courage she could scrape together, she swallowed and whispered, “Ms. Victoria... why? I... I really want this job.” Victoria didn’t sigh, click her tongue, or act annoyed. She simply folded her arms and fixed Celestine with a level, almost weary gaze.

“Because,” she started, “only people with a certain temperament can survive this position. It is relentlessly stressful, draining, challenging, and exhausting. And someone with your hesitation...”

She gestured faintly with her glasses. “You wouldn’t last long. I am not insulting you, Ms. Bellini. You are capable, but I am sparing you.” Celestine felt a lump rise in her throat, holding back her tears. Victoria tapped the documents twice with her pen. “This position, Client Support Associate at Milford Financial Solutions, requires someone who can make decisive calls under pressure. Our workload is intense. Hesitating is out of the question.”

“But I can do it,” she protested. “I-if I’m trained properly, I can do it. Just give me a cha—”

“Training won’t change anything, Ms. Bellini. The financial sector eats the indecisive.” She paused, her tone subtly softening. “You have potential, but I’ve worked here for 30 years. I know what it does to people.” She put on her glasses, her eyes softening briefly—like a small crack in the armor beneath those dense spectacles. “Now, you can see yourself out, Ms. Bellini,” she said. “Go find a job that deserves you, not the one that will crush you.”

Celestine stepped out of the interview room in a daze, the door thudding shut behind her like the final nail in a coffin. The office’s bustle now sounded like cruel mockery. Negative thoughts swarmed her mind, and at last, she let the tears she’d held back spill over. She found her way to the exit through blurred vision, uncaring whether anyone saw her in that pitiful state. As she pushed the door open, cold air slapped her face, jolting her back to reality. Her breath trembled as she forced down the heavy lump in her throat.

“I’m not crying,” she whispered. “No, I’m not crying,” she repeated with a brittle chuckle.

She walked down the steps, across the sidewalk, and crossed the road, her mind still back in the interview room. Each step felt strangely weightless, her body moving on autopilot while her soul lagged behind. Her stomach rumbled, loud enough to draw glances from passersby. She dropped her head, hiding her burning cheeks behind frizzy, unkempt hair. Oh, God. That’s the cherry on top, she thought. Perfect. She drew a slow breath, eyes closed, and—

Coffee.

A warm, rich aroma drifted through the chill, wrapping around her senses. She inhaled again, and a wave of nostalgia washed over her, tugging at memories she thought she’d forgotten.

Her father.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she lifted her head. Her nose wrinkled as she followed the enticing scent like a starving wolf. It drifted on the breeze, tugging her down the street, around the corner, and past an alley. After a few turns, she found herself standing in front of a quaint café tucked between two tall buildings. Celestine noticed the hand-printed sign, slightly faded into the signboard:

Gianluca’s Café.

The café’s façade didn’t scream for attention; it whispered invitation. Large, deep-set panes of glass framed the front—vintage, floor-to-ceiling windows in a rich espresso tone. Through them, Celestine could see warm sunlight spilling into the room, softening everything it touched. The door matched the style—solid, old-fashioned—and when she pushed it open, a brass bell rang, gently announcing her arrival. It was a sound of welcome that sharply contrasted with the cold, nerve-wracking office she had just left.

The air inside was rich and complex, dominated by dark-roasted Brazilian coffee—a comforting aroma she could only compare to her late father’s warm embrace. Beneath that were notes of chocolate, bittersweet roasted beans, and sweet, buttery pastries. The café hummed softly—low conversation, the quiet rhythm of machines, and gentle music drifting in the background.

The interior was the embodiment of classic European elegance—cozy and inviting. The walls were paneled halfway up with dark, polished wood and painted a soft olive green above. The flooring was smooth, dark hardwood laid in a subtle geometric pattern.

Celestine couldn’t help but admire the long counter. Behind it, a classic mirror reflected the warm glow of a chandelier. Beneath the glass display, golden croissants, ruby-red tarts, and dark, powdered biscotti drew her in. She stepped closer, glancing up at the menu overhead.

A young staff member noticed her and greeted her with a cheerful smile. “Good morning! How can I help you today?”

Celestine smiled back, hesitating for a second. “Double-shot espresso with milk, please. And would you mind telling me today’s special, if there is one?”

The staff member smiled and gently pushed aside the velvet curtain leading to the back kitchen. An older man emerged, his white apron dusted with flour, his forearms strong, his eyes warm.

“She wants to know our special, Mr. Gianluca,” the staff member said.

“Ah, you’ve picked a good day, signorina,” he said, his voice a low, comforting rumble—the kind Celestine remembered from the family table. “Today is a special day for bomboloni.”

He gestured proudly to the glistening spheres on the tray in his hand.

“Our croissants are usually the best sellers, but today is about remembering the simple things.” He set the tray down and continued, “My grandmother, Nonna Elaria, only made them on special days, believing every soul deserves a moment of perfect sweetness. Today, we make them in her honor—and a little treat for yours truly.”

Gianluca chuckled as he placed two bomboloni and a croissant on a small plate. “It’s my birthday today. And as a celebration—here.” He handed the plate to the staff member with a wink.

“On the house for the new face. Looks like you could use a little warmth.” He added, turning toward the staff, “No charge for her coffee. Today must be her lucky day.”

He disappeared back into the kitchen, still laughing. “Go find yourself a corner and forget the world for ten minutes!”

Celestine was too stunned to say a word. She managed a small, genuine smile—one that felt unfamiliar on her face.

“Thank you, sir!” she murmured. “Oh, and happy birthday!”

The staff member told her to sit anywhere and that she would bring the pastries and coffee to her. Celestine thanked her and scanned the café for a seat.

She spotted the perfect one—the deepest corner booth, where the shadows stretched long and the air felt still. As she slid onto the worn leather seat, the tension in her lower back began to unspool. She didn’t think about the failed interviews. She didn’t think about her finances. She simply waited for her small treat with quiet delight.

For the first time today—no, in a long, long time—she forgot about the world. There was something about the café that stirred fond memories. When she was little, it had been a family ritual to eat together—breakfast, lunch, or supper.

She would wait eagerly for her mother to serve the food, humming softly to herself. She knew better than to touch anything without saying grace. Her father had also established a rule: negativity spoils the blessings. No negative talk at the table.

Rule makers are also rule breakers, she thought with a small chuckle.

“Here’s your birthday treat from the owner—and your latte, double shot,” the staff member said, pulling Celestine back from her thoughts as she set everything down gently.

“Thank you!” Celestine said.

“No problem! Oh, by the way, my name is Marian. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call me!”

Marian returned to the counter to tend to other customers.

Celestine picked up the bomboloni and examined the crisp outer layer. It had a faint, glassy caramelized sugar glaze, different from the sugar-dusted ones she’d had before. The dough was cloud-soft, still warm from the kitchen.

She took a bite. The sugar crunched against her teeth, followed by rich lemon crema that felt like a gentle defiance of the dreadful, tasteless morning she’d had.

She closed her eyes, letting the flavor ground her. Between the warmth of the coffee and the velvet texture of the pastry, the world outside the glass windows felt distant—like a movie playing in the background. For a few minutes, she wasn’t a failed applicant or a girl facing uncertainty. She was simply someone enjoying a stranger’s kindness.

The soft clinking of spoons and the low hum of music formed a quiet barrier, keeping the chaos of the outside world at bay. She felt a rare sense of peace—a small spark of the girl she used to be.

She tried to linger in the café a little longer, eating slowly, soaking in the quiet comfort. But eventually, the coffee reached the bottom of the cup. With a small, reluctant breath, Celestine stood.

Out of habit, she took a paper napkin, wiped the table, and stacked the cup neatly on top of the plate. She fished a five-dollar bill from her pocket, tucked it beneath the plate, and walked toward the door.

As she pushed it open, the brass bell gave a final, cheerful chime that felt almost like a farewell.

The moment she stepped onto the sidewalk, the cold wind didn’t just touch her—it cut through her thin coat. With each step away from Gianluca’s, the café’s warmth faded. The comfort unraveled quietly, dissolving the farther she went.

By the first block, the taste of lemon had already begun to fade.

By the second, the caffeine turned into a restless flutter in her chest.

By the third, the tall, bland buildings seemed to lean over her, their shadows cutting off the sun.

She wandered without direction, letting the wind brush against her face, wishing she could hold onto that brief warmth. The memory lingered—but only as something distant, untouchable.

The cold settled back into her bones. Her shoulders crept up, her head dipped low. She pulled her hair over her face, staring at the cracks in the pavement—and at her worn-out shoes. Even they looked like they were giving up.

As tempting as it was, giving up was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Her gaze drifted past the sidewalks and parked cars until something caught her attention—a community board.

Gianluca’s Café.

She stepped closer and spotted a neatly printed notice.

Café Assistant — Gianluca’s Café

• Permanent position available.

• Friendly, motivated individual wanted to join our famiglia.

• Tasks include assisting at the counter, daily operations, and ensuring guests enjoy our coffee and pastries.

• Starting pay: $15/hour.

Inquire at the counter for an application.

Celestine’s eyes lingered on the words. Fifteen dollars an hour. Steady work. Not glamorous—but maybe enough.

She hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the paper. Maybe I can do this. I can try… At least it’s something, right?

A shiver ran through her—part cold, part something else. Something like hope.

She took the ad and tucked it into her coat pocket. She was already imagining what it might feel like to return—not as a customer, but as someone who belonged, even in the smallest way.

She started walking again, aimless as before, lost in quiet calculations of survival. She didn’t notice the flash of a designer coat or the swing of a shopping bag until—

“Oof!”

Celestine stumbled back, her heel catching on a stray pebble. She gasped, floundering, and landed hard on the pavement.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, watch where you’re—”

The voice was sharp, polished—undeniably wealthy.

Celestine looked up, already apologizing. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t—”

The words died in her throat.

Standing before her was a familiar face.

The woman looked as though she had stepped out of a high-fashion magazine—strawberry-blonde hair perfectly in place, sharp eyes scanning her with unmistakable recognition. Her gaze flicked over Celestine’s frizzy hair and worn blazer.

Celestine knew that look.

Recognition.

“Celestine?” the woman said, her tone shifting from irritation to something far more unsettling. “Celestine Bellini? Is that really you?”

Celestine’s stomach dropped.