Chapter 132 - 131 Capitalist and Chemistry
***[EMILY]***
Steaming melted cheese has a magical ability to instantly diffuse tension, transforming even the most exhausted cafe workers into your best friend.
I open the cardboard boxes on the polished wooden counter. A thick cloud of savory steam rises immediately into the cool, air-conditioned air of the Didi Cafe. The rich scent of roasted garlic, cured bacon, and sharp mozzarella completely overpowers the lingering aroma of espresso beans. Zoe leans over the counter, her dark eyes wide with pure appreciation. Her sharp, stylish bob swings forward, grazing her cheek.
"You are an absolute lifesaver, Emily," Zoe says. She reaches into a lower cabinet and pulls out two white ceramic plates.
"Take as much as you want. Aunt Cherry insisted on giving me extra." I grab a slice, the hot grease warming my fingertips. The crust cracks perfectly as I take a bite, a sharp crunch echoing in the quiet shop.
Zoe does not waste a single second. She practically inhales her first bite, her shoulders dropping visibly as the hot food hits her stomach. After swallowing, she wipes her mouth with a crisp white napkin and turns toward the small prep station. She grabs three large, vibrant oranges from a woven basket, slices them cleanly down the middle, and presses them into a heavy stainless steel juicer. The sharp, sweet tang of fresh citrus fills the space between us.
She pours the bright orange liquid into a tall glass cup filled with ice cubes and slides it across the counter toward me. Condensation immediately forms on the smooth glass. I wrap my hand around the cold surface and take a sip. The fresh juice is incredibly sweet and cold, washing away the lingering exhaustion of my morning training session.
Zoe leans against the counter, chewing on a piece of crispy bacon. Her gaze drifts past my shoulder, fixing on the entrance of the cafe. I turn my head slightly. Leo stands near the glass door, completely motionless. He wears his usual black athletic gear, his broad shoulders and formidable height making him look like a lethal shadow. His eyes constantly scan the street outside, observing every passing pedestrian with intense, calculated scrutiny.
Zoe leans in closer to me, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So, is the tall, dark, and dangerous guy your boyfriend?"
I nearly choke on my orange juice. I swallow hard, coughing slightly as the cold liquid hits the back of my throat. I place the glass down on the wooden surface, shaking my head vigorously.
"Absolutely not," I say. I wipe the corner of my mouth with a napkin, keeping my voice perfectly level. "He is strictly security. There is absolutely nothing romantic going on there."
Zoe studies my face for a brief second. Her dark eyes search my expression for any hidden secrets. Apparently finding none, she simply shrugs and takes another large bite of her pizza. She drops the subject completely, smoothly transitioning her focus back to the food. I appreciate her easygoing nature. The very last thing I need right now is local gossip spreading about my relationship status, especially since my actual husband is a billionaire CEO who prefers to operate in the shadows.
I take another sip of my drink, watching Zoe work. She manages the cafe with effortless grace. Even while eating, her eyes dart toward the tablet register, checking incoming orders. She wipes down the espresso machine with practiced, efficient strokes. She knows exactly where every single syrup bottle, coffee filter, and ceramic mug belongs.
I tap my fingernail against the side of my cold glass. I have a stack of highly lucrative, incredibly delicious milk tea recipes sitting back in my bedroom. My high school mentor taught me how to break down and blend complex flavors years ago. Those recipes are my ticket to a fast, reliable income stream, but I lack the storefront experience to execute the plan alone.
"How much do you actually know about running a place like this?" I ask. I keep my tone casual, projecting innocent curiosity.
Zoe sighs heavily. She tosses her crumpled napkin into a small metal bin beneath the counter. "I know entirely too much. I started working part-time shifts here two years ago. I basically lived behind this counter."
"Just part-time?" I ask.
"It started that way," Zoe explains. She crosses her arms over her crisp white button-down shirt. "Then the owner realized I was organized. Last summer, they practically handed me the shop manager position. I was doing everything. I managed the inventory, coordinated the supplier deliveries, balanced the daily registers, and fixed the espresso grinder whenever it jammed."
She picks up a wet cloth and scrubs a nonexistent stain on the countertop, clearly agitated by the memory.
"That sounds like a lot of responsibility for a student," I point out.
"It was a massive amount of responsibility," Zoe says. Her voice rises slightly, echoing off the wooden ceiling panels. "And the worst part is the pay. Those greedy capitalists made me do the grueling work of a full-time senior manager, but they only paid me the pathetic wages of a summer intern. They squeezed every ounce of labor out of me and kept all the actual profits for themselves."
I listen closely, nodding in agreement. Her frustration is completely valid. It is also exactly what I hoped to hear. She understands the operational mechanics of a beverage shop inside and out. She knows how to deal with suppliers, handle equipment, and manage customer flow. She possesses the exact skill set I desperately need to launch my milk tea business.
"That is entirely unfair," I say. I lean my elbows on the counter, closing the distance between us. "You clearly have the talent to run a successful storefront. It is honestly much better to just be your own boss. You set the hours, and you keep the profits."
Zoe lets out a bitter, exhausted laugh. She tosses the wet cloth into a small plastic sink. "You are preaching to the choir, Emily. I dream about being my own boss. I would love to open a place and run it my way, without some corporate suit breathing down my neck."
My pulse quickens. I keep my expression carefully neutral, suppressing the sudden spike of excitement. I have the recipes, and I have the initial startup capital from my personal savings. If Zoe provides the operational management, we could dominate the local beverage market in a matter of months.
"So why don’t you?" I ask. I take a slow, deliberate sip of my orange juice, watching her over the rim of the glass. "Why not start a business right now?"
Zoe shakes her head, her dark bob swaying with the movement. The brief spark of excitement completely vanishes from her eyes, replaced by a heavy, profound exhaustion. Her shoulders slump forward. She grabs a stack of clean ceramic saucers and begins stacking them near the coffee grinder.
"I simply do not have the time," Zoe says. Her voice drops back to a tired, flat tone. "I want to, believe me. But my university schedule is completely brutal."
"What are you studying?" I ask.
"Medicinal chemistry," she replies. She stacks the last saucer and leans back against the back counter. "It is a nightmare. I have advanced laboratory sessions, three heavy lectures a week, and a massive pile of research papers due every single month. There are simply too many courses to juggle. I barely have enough time to sleep, let alone draft a business plan, secure a commercial lease, and manage a brand new startup."
The ambient noise of the cafe suddenly feels incredibly loud. The clinking of porcelain mugs and the steady hiss of the espresso machine grating against my ears. I stare at the melting ice cubes in my glass. The cold condensation drips down my fingers, pooling on the wooden counter.
My perfectly constructed plan collapses instantly.
I need a partner who can dedicate their entire focus to the day-to-day operations of the shop. I cannot be the face of the business. My priority is preparing for my enrollment at the Etlan University of Medicine, finalizing the SN1818 pharmaceutical partnership with Victor Sterling, and navigating the dangerous, complicated politics of the Wolfe family. I need someone to manage the storefront full-time while I handle the product development behind the scenes.
Zoe’s course load makes it physically impossible for her to commit. She is already drowning in her academic responsibilities. Dragging her into a demanding startup venture would only cause both of us to fail.
I press my lips together, biting the soft skin on the inside of my cheek. A deep, heavy frustration settles directly into my bones. Finding someone trustworthy, capable, and available is proving to be incredibly difficult. The recipes sitting in my notebook are practically worthless without a proper venue to sell them.
"That sounds like a brutal schedule," I finally say. I force a polite, understanding smile onto my face, masking the intense disappointment dragging down my mood. "You definitely need to focus on your degree first."
Zoe smiles gratefully, completely unaware of the massive opportunity that just slipped through both of our fingers. She turns back to the espresso machine to pull a fresh shot for a waiting customer. I stare silently at the remaining slice of pizza in the cardboard box. My appetite is completely gone.
I slide off the tall wooden stool, my boots hitting the floor with a dull thud. I need to rethink my entire strategy. I have to find a new operational partner, and I have absolutely no idea where to start looking.