Too Late to Love Me Now

Alessia "Blake" Falcone POV:

The next day, I walked into school with a slight limp and a fresh, blooming bruise on my cheekbone.

I didn't bother trying to cover it with makeup.

I wore the damage like armor-a warning.

In the crowded hallway, a jock named Mark-someone who'd never so much as glanced my way before-zeroed in on me.

"Woah, Falcone, trip over your own feet?" he jeered, mimicking my limp with a smug grin.

His friends snickered.

I kept my gaze locked forward, my jaw tight.

Don't react. Don't give them the satisfaction.

Then, a shadow fell over us.

Kane Conrad materialized beside me, a figure of quiet, absolute authority.

He didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

He just leveled a look at Mark, his grey eyes flat and devoid of warmth.

The jock froze. The grin slid off his face, replaced by a flicker of genuine fear.

"Sorry," Mark stammered, his voice suddenly two octaves higher. "Didn't mean anything."

He and his friends practically scrambled over each other to get away.

Kane's gaze shifted to me. He reached into his pocket and held out a small, sterile wipe in a foil packet.

His gaze lingered on the cut on my face, holding for a fraction of a second longer than necessary-a silent acknowledgment.

I took it without a word, my fingers brushing his.

A jolt, small and unexpected, shot through me.

Later, in class, a small tube of antibiotic ointment landed on my desk. It was passed back from the front of the row, originating with Kane but delivered by a smiling Emily Scott.

I could feel the jealous stares of other girls burning into my back, but I ignored them.

My focus was singular. Learn. Absorb. Become a weapon.

But the knowledge didn't come as easily anymore.

The trauma had exacted its price. The constant stress was a fog in my brain, forcing me to fight twice as hard for memories that had once come effortlessly.

After the final bell, my mother was waiting for me by the school gates, holding a thermos.

"Edna's Kitchen" was real.

She unfolded a simple, printed flyer, her face glowing with a pride I thought I'd never see again.

The logo was a cheerful drawing of a smiling woman holding a pie. Her.

She poured me a cup of hot, fragrant soup. It was heaven.

"I'm focusing on the lunch crowd from the office buildings downtown," she said, her voice full of a new, determined energy.

I took another sip, my mind already working.

"That's good," I said, my voice sharp and clinical, the voice of a strategist, not a daughter. "But you need to build a clientele. Offer subscription models. A weekly menu. It creates loyalty and predictable income."