My alarm went off at 6:40. I hit snooze twice before finally rolling over, one arm reaching for the cold side of the blanket, the other knocking over a water bottle on the nightstand. Great. Wet socks before sunrise.
My work shirt still smelled like yesterday’s burnt milk. I didn’t bother changing it. Sprayed a little deodorant under my arms, tied my hair back, and shoved a half-eaten granola bar in my mouth before rushing out the door.
Rent was due in six days, and I was short—again. I had maybe a hundred bucks in my checking account, not counting the three loyalty cards and a bus ticket I couldn’t remember buying.
It was already drizzling by the time I made it to the stop. The kind of misty drizzle that gets into your sleeves and turns your cheap sneakers into little foot-sized bathtubs.
I made it to the café just before eight. Marta was already there, tapping on the espresso machine like it owed her money.
“Morning,” she muttered.
“Yeah,” I mumbled back, clocking in with one hand while pulling on my apron with the other.
The usual rhythm kicked in. Orders. Payments. Smiles that didn’t quite reach the eyes. One guy asked for a “deconstructed macchiato,” whatever the hell that meant. A tourist spilled his iced matcha and blamed me. Another customer didn’t say thank you when I gave her change.
That was fine. No one ever did.
Around 9:40, a man walked in wearing a navy wool coat, clean shoes, and an expression like he owned everything he looked at. He wasn’t one of our regulars.
“Black Americano,” he said, no eye contact.
I gave it to him, took his payment, and moved on. I didn’t think twice.
The lunch crowd arrived a bit after noon—students, moms, a pair of office girls gossiping in suits that probably cost more than my monthly rent. One of them took a photo of her cappuccino from three angles before sipping it.
My phone buzzed in my apron pocket. I ignored it.
Buzzed again. And again.
When I stepped into the storage room to grab more oat milk, I checked it.
Twenty-one missed messages.
Three were from my mom.
One from my old high school classmate Julia:
“OMG girl is this YOU?? 😂💀”
There was a link. And a screenshot.
My face. Well—half of it.
Blurred slightly, but unmistakably me, standing at the register handing a cup of coffee to navy coat guy. The headline screamed:
“Mystery Woman Spotted with Billionaire CEO — Secret Scandal Brewing?”
At first, I stared. Thinking maybe it was a joke.
Then I read the comments.
“She’s pretty in that broke barista way.” “Her name’s Emma. She works at BrewStir on 9th. Just saw her this morning lol.” “Gold digger vibes. You can see it in her eyes.” “Y’all she def planned this. Look at the body language.”
I felt like I’d just been shoved into cold water.
Not mad. Not sad. Just… blank.
Back at the counter, things kept moving. A kid screamed over his muffin. Marta rolled her eyes at me when I forgot to wipe the steamer wand. I handed a soy flat white to the wrong person.
Everything felt off, like the walls had quietly shifted sideways.
I messaged my mom:
“That article is fake. I didn’t do anything. Please don’t believe it.”
No reply.
When my shift ended at 3:30, I didn’t bother changing. Just grabbed my coat and walked out into the gray afternoon.
I didn’t know where I was going.
The city hummed around me like it always did—cars honking, construction drilling, someone shouting about Jesus down on the corner. But it all felt muffled, like I was underwater.
Ten blocks later, I found myself in front of a glass building I’d only ever passed before—the office of “MetroBuzz,” the site that posted the headline.
Inside, the receptionist barely looked up. “You have an appointment?”
“No,” I said. “But I need to speak with someone about a story. It’s about me.”
She gave me a look. The kind people give when they don’t know if you’re crazy or just tired. Then she told me to wait.
Twenty-three minutes later, a woman with slicked-back hair and sharp cheekbones walked out of the elevator holding a tablet.
“You Emma?” she asked.
I nodded.
She didn’t introduce herself. Just turned and led me upstairs.
We passed rows of glowing screens, each one flashing headlines and analytics and photo editing tools. The whole place smelled like recycled air and burnt ambition.
When we stopped, she turned her tablet toward me.
There it was.
A draft. Scheduled for tomorrow.
“She Confesses: The Full Story Behind the Affair”
My name in bold underneath.
A close-up of my face from this morning. Same ponytail. Same tired skin. Same everything.
“I didn’t confess to anything,” I said, voice catching.
She shrugged. “Not yet.”
I just stood there. For a second, it felt like my lungs forgot how to fill.
“You don’t have to talk,” she said casually. “You’re already a story. These things write themselves.”
I backed away from her, from the screen, from all of it.
Outside, it had started to rain harder. I didn’t pull up my hood.
The people walking past didn’t look twice at me. They never did.
In one window, across the street, I saw a flat screen TV behind the glass. It was playing a news reel.
My face again. The same headline, slightly reworded.
“Barista Gone Viral: Billionaire’s Secret?”
I just stood there, soaked to the skin, watching a stranger’s version of me play on loop.
No one had asked if it was true. No one had asked me anything at all.
