#tw.intimidation

Just like people.

Across the table, she sat stiffly—the woman who still had the privilege of being in your life.

For now.

She was pretending to be at ease, but Laurent could see through the act. The way she barely touched the silverware in front of her, the way her fingers curled against the edge of the table instead of resting comfortably—subtle, nervous habits.

She wasn’t afraid of him. Not yet.

But she should be.

The restaurant around them was quiet, its atmosphere tailored for discretion. The ambient lighting was soft, casting golden hues against polished wood and expensive glass. Conversations remained hushed, their words swallowed by the deep acoustics of the room. This was a place where deals were made behind half-smiles and wine glasses, where power was exchanged over candlelit tables.

It was a place for people like him.

Not for people like her.

She knew it, too. Laurent could see it in the way her shoulders remained squared, as if bracing herself against an invisible force. The tension in her body was almost amusing. As if she had already decided she didn’t trust him but had still come here anyway.

That was the first mistake.

He set his glass down, allowing the silence to stretch—not long enough to be awkward, but just enough for the weight of it to press against her.

Then, he finally spoke.

“I want to talk about her.”

A reaction. Subtle, but there. A barely noticeable pause in the way she shifted her utensils, the flicker of hesitation in her eyes before she masked it with a carefully neutral expression.

“She’s doing fine,” she said smoothly. “She’s managing. You know how she is.”

Managing.

Laurent hummed, tilting his head slightly, as if considering the word. He let it linger between them, untouched.

It was the kind of word people used when they were lying.

“She’s surviving,” he corrected, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

Her lips pressed together. “She’s strong.”

“She shouldn’t have to be.”

The candlelight flickered, its golden glow reflected in the deep red of his wine glass.

Laurent studied her with the same precision he used in business negotiations. Reading her. Measuring her.

The slight tightening of her grip around the base of her glass. The way she was carefully keeping her breathing even. The barely-there twitch of her fingers as she considered how much she wanted to reveal.

She was cautious. He would give her that.

But caution didn’t win against inevitability.

“I heard Frosty Café has been struggling,” Laurent continued, his tone smooth, effortless. “Cost-cutting. Declining sales. Unstable employment.”

He took a slow sip of his wine, letting the weight of his words settle. Then, softer—more intentional.

“It must be exhausting for her.”

And there it was.

The first real crack.

A sharp exhale, followed by a hesitation that wasn’t masked quickly enough. A flicker of frustration in her eyes.

“She doesn’t complain,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “Even when they started letting people go, she just… kept pushing through.”

Of course, she did.

That was who she was. The kind of woman who carried burdens too heavy for her shoulders but refused to let them break her.

But Laurent knew something she didn’t.

People like her—people who never asked for help, who bore their struggles in silence—were the easiest to break.

Not through force. Through exhaustion.

“She deserves better.”

His voice softened—not enough to be comforting, but enough to coax.

A subtle nudge. A well-placed seed.

Her best friend hesitated. “What exactly are you getting at?”

Laurent leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. Not aggressive, not imposing—just enough to shift the weight of the conversation.

“I want to help her.”

A scoff. “Out of the kindness of your heart?”

He smiled. Slow. Unreadable.

“No.” He swirled his glass, watching the wine move. “Out of devotion.”

Silence.

A thick, suffocating kind of silence.

Her friend’s fingers twitched against her napkin. “She doesn’t even remember you.”

Laurent didn’t react immediately.

He simply tilted his head, as if considering the words.

“That doesn’t matter.”

It never did.

She had changed his life once, years ago, with nothing but a simple act of kindness. And though she had long forgotten, he never had.

She had never noticed the hands shaping her world.

Never noticed how often fate bent in her favor—or how often it didn’t.

But Laurent had been there.

Always watching. Always waiting.

And now, the final piece was ready to be placed.

“Ignis will be opening soon,” Laurent continued, his voice smooth, patient. “A high-end café inside a corporate building—exclusive, profitable, stable. The perfect place for her to thrive.”

Her best friend frowned, something tightening in her expression.

She was realizing something. That this wasn’t just generosity.

That this was something else entirely.

“And you want her to work there?” she asked.

Laurent exhaled softly.

“I want her to run it.”

A flicker of shock. Uncertainty.

“The café will be in your name,” he continued. “On paper, at least. The contracts, the finances—it will all be under your ownership.” He leaned back, giving her space to process. “All you have to do is convince her to take the manager position.”

She hesitated.

“And what do I get out of this?”

His lips curved slightly.

“You get the profits. A steady income. A secure business without the risk. And, most importantly…”

A pause.

“You get to help your dear friend.”

Laurent saw it the moment she started to fold.

The flicker of hesitation. The moral conflict.

She was loyal. Protective.

But she was also practical.

At the end of the day, everyone had a price.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Laurent didn’t break eye contact. He didn’t need to. He had already set the pace, dictated the flow, ensured the conclusion before she even knew what game they were playing.

Her fingers curled slightly around the stem of her glass. She wasn’t drinking. Not really. Just holding it, as if the chilled surface against her skin could anchor her.

Laurent smiled. A quiet, knowing thing.

“You’re hesitating,” he said, voice smooth, almost amused. “You’re wondering if this is a mistake.”

Her expression tightened, but she didn’t deny it.

Laurent leaned back slightly, the movement casual, effortless. “You care about her.” A pause, calculated. “That’s why you’re here.”

She exhaled, rubbing a thumb along the rim of her glass. “I don’t think—”

“You do.” Laurent cut in smoothly, tilting his head. “You think too much. That’s the problem.”

A flicker of something—annoyance, unease.

Laurent reached for his wine glass again, letting the silence settle between them for a few moments, just long enough for it to feel weighted. He could see it happening—her mind shifting, tilting toward the inevitable.

She was already there.

She just didn’t know it yet.

She exhaled slowly, her gaze flickering toward the candlelight between them. The small flame wavered, casting shifting shadows against the white linen tablecloth. Laurent could see it—the way her mind was pulling in two directions, loyalty warring with practicality.

He had seen it happen countless times before.

The exact moment when hesitation tilted toward surrender.

“You’re worried,” Laurent murmured, his voice quiet but sure. “Worried that this isn’t the right choice.” He tilted his head slightly. “But tell me… how much longer do you think she can keep going like this?”

Her fingers twitched. A reaction. A crack.

Laurent didn’t press. Not yet. He let the words linger, let the doubt seep into her mind like ink into water.

“You’ve seen it yourself, haven’t you?” he continued, his tone gentle, coaxing. “The exhaustion in her eyes. The way she’s been working herself past her limits.”

She swallowed.

“She won’t ask for help,” Laurent mused, rolling the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “She never does.” A pause. Then, softer—deadlier.

“Someone has to make the decision for her.”

Her lips parted slightly as if to argue, but the words never came.

Laurent smiled.

He had her.

The tension between them was palpable now, coiling in the air like an invisible thread tightening around her throat.

Laurent didn’t move, didn’t rush her. He simply waited, giving her space to unravel on her own. That was the thing about people like her—they talked themselves into submission.

He just had to listen.

“She wouldn’t want this forced on her,” she finally said, though the conviction in her voice wavered.

Laurent exhaled, as if indulging a tired argument. “Who said anything about force?”

She hesitated.

“Convincing isn’t coercion.” He traced the rim of his glass with his thumb, the movement slow, precise. “We’re offering her something better. Something stable. Something she deserves.”

She swallowed, gaze dropping to her plate.

“She’ll thank you for it,” Laurent continued, voice softer now, almost reassuring. “One day.”

A beat of silence. The final hesitation.

Then, finally—

“What exactly would I need to do?”

He smiled.

Laurent took a measured sip of his wine, his expression unreadable. “Nothing drastic,” he said, setting the glass down. “She just needs a little… push.”

Her fingers curled against her lap, tension visible in the way she clenched and unclenched her hands. “You mean manipulation.”

Laurent chuckled, low and amused. “Persuasion.”

She scoffed, shaking her head. “And if she refuses?”

“She won’t.” His certainty was unwavering. “She’s at her breaking point. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

She inhaled sharply, her nails digging into her palm. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

Laurent leaned in slightly, the candlelight flickering in his gaze. “I always do.”

Silence settled between them, heavier than before. He could almost hear her thoughts clicking into place, falling in line with his expectations.

Then, after what felt like a final moment of resistance—she nodded.

Just once.

Laurent’s smile was victory itself.

End of Chapter One.

noirscript © 2025

taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt

“I was gone for an entire week and I couldn't receive a warm welcome from my wife.” I remain seated near him, afraid that he would lash out and broke another part of my body like he always do. “Look at me.”

I wanted to disobey him. I wanted to keep ny eyes on the cold dinner we’re served, but my body could no longer disobey his commands. I raised my head and met his unwavering gaze.

“Do you think that I wouldn't know that you broke one of my rules?” He grabbed my wrist with a bone-breaking squeeze. “How difficult is it to stay inside this place when I am not around, hm?”

I wanted to pull away my arm, keep it far from his grasp, but I wasn’t strong enough to go against him. “I-I’m sorry. I will not do it ag—un!”

Tears began to form from my eyes as he forcefully hold my face as he made me look at him. “Do you really think that apologizing would save yourself?”

He sneered. “I hope you enjoyed your trip and had a good look of that place.” He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “Because you’ll never get out of that place without my approval.”

He let go of my wrist and face before sitting formally on his seat. “Let’s eat.”

You’re too busy wiping down the espresso machine for the third time that morning, as if scrubbing harder could erase the exhaustion pressing against your bones.

The shop has been quiet all day. Too quiet.

In the past, lunchtime meant steady foot traffic—regulars slipping in for a quick cup of coffee, students occupying the corner tables with their textbooks, office workers picking up something sweet before heading back to their cubicles.

But lately, the crowds have thinned.

The air inside feels heavier now, the empty seats a stark reminder of what you’ve been trying to ignore.

The café is dying.

And you are sinking with it.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

The register beeps as you ring up a lone order—a single espresso, the first sale in nearly an hour. You force a polite smile as the customer takes their drink and walks out, leaving the café empty once again.

The silence is suffocating.

Your eyes flicker to the schedule pinned behind the counter, the red marks glaring back at you. Fewer shifts. Shorter hours. Another coworker is gone.

You know what this means.

It’s not just the café that’s struggling. It’s you.

Rent is due soon. Bills are stacking up. You’ve already cut corners wherever you could—fewer groceries, no unnecessary spending, convincing yourself you don’t really need three meals a day.

Your hands tighten around the counter.

You’ve worked so hard to hold everything together. But no matter how much effort you put in, it’s never enough.

You close your eyes, exhaling slowly.

And that’s when your best friend’s voice echoes in your mind.

"You don’t have to struggle like this."

"I’m offering you something better."

Your stomach twists.

You don’t want to take the offer. You don’t want to walk away from the job you fought to keep.

But as you stare at the nearly empty café, at the reality pressing down on you like a vice, you realize something.

You might not have a choice.

The bells above the door chime, jolting you from your thoughts. You expect to see a customer, maybe a regular, but instead, it’s her.

Your best friend steps inside, shaking the rain from her umbrella before folding it neatly. She doesn’t hesitate as she makes her way toward the counter, her gaze flicking briefly to the nearly empty shop.

She notices.

Of course, she does.

You wipe your hands on a towel, forcing a smile. “You’re out early.”

She hums in response, glancing toward the espresso machine. “Slow day?”

You shrug, hoping she doesn’t hear the exhaustion creeping into your voice. “Nothing new.”

She doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she studies you—too closely.

And that’s when you know why she’s really here.

She’s not just checking in. She came with a purpose.

You don’t say anything, just turn away to busy yourself with the machine, pretending to adjust the settings. But you can still feel her watching you, waiting.

Then, finally—

“You should consider my offer.”

You pause, your fingers hovering over the espresso machine’s buttons. You knew this was coming. You could feel it in the way she had been watching you, in the weight of her silence before she finally spoke.

Still, you force a small, dry chuckle. “You’re persistent.”

“I have to be,” she says, sliding onto one of the stools by the counter. “You’re stubborn.”

You shake your head, turning your attention back to the machine as if there’s suddenly something urgent about refilling the coffee beans. Anything to keep from meeting her eyes.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

She exhales, and you can almost hear the frustration in it.

“You’re not fine,” she says, voice quieter this time. “Look around you, Y/N. How much longer can you keep doing this?”

The name stings. She only says it like that when she’s serious, when she’s done letting you dodge the truth.

You grip the edge of the counter, shoulders tense.

“Frosty Café isn’t going to last,” she continues, softer now, almost apologetic. “You know that.”

You swallow hard. Of course, you know that.

You’ve known for a while now.

But admitting it? That’s different.

You finally turn to face her, crossing your arms. “And what? Should I just leave? Drop everything and run?”

She meets your stare without flinching. She was prepared for this.

“No one’s asking you to run,” she says calmly. “But you don’t have to let this place drag you down with it.”

Silence.

She doesn’t fill it right away. She lets it sit.

And that’s when you realize—

She’s waiting for you to break.

You hate how well she knows you.

Hate that she knew exactly what to say, how to say it.

Because now, you’re thinking about it.

You shift your weight, glancing toward the empty tables, the rain-slicked windows, the coffee machine that’s barely been used today. The quiet hum of the refrigerator feels deafening.

She’s right.

You don’t want to admit it, but she’s right.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers against your temple. “What exactly are you offering?”

You don’t miss the way her posture eases just slightly.

She knew you’d ask.

“A stable job. A managerial position at a new café.” She keeps her voice measured, professional, like she’s just stating facts. “The pay is good. The hours are better. And you wouldn’t have to worry about whether your next paycheck will actually come through.”

A bitter laugh escapes before you can stop it. “Sounds a little too perfect, doesn’t it?”

She doesn’t react, just tilts her head. Waiting. Watching. Letting you argue with yourself.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

She’s not lying. You know she’s not.

But something about this—about the way she’s offering it, about the way she’s looking at you—feels off.

It’s as if there’s something she isn’t saying.

You narrow your eyes, studying her. She’s holding something back.

She’s too composed. Too prepared.

And that’s what makes you hesitate.

“…Why now?” you ask.

She blinks, caught off guard for the first time. “What?”

“Why are you bringing this up again now?” You gesture vaguely around the café. “You’ve mentioned it before, but today… You came here just to push this.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she picks up a sugar packet from the counter, turning it between her fingers.

Then, finally—

“I don’t want to see you struggle anymore.”

It sounds genuine. It almost convinces you.

Almost.

You lean against the counter, crossing your arms. “Who owns this café?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “I do.”

That part, at least, isn’t a lie.

But it still doesn’t feel like the whole truth.

Your stomach tightens. You can’t put your finger on it, but something about this doesn’t sit right.

You should say no.

You should walk away.

But when you glance back at the empty café, the dwindling supplies, the unpaid invoices stacking up in the office…

Can you afford to?

You hate this. Hate that she’s making sense.

Because deep down, you know she’s right.

You’re barely holding on. The café is already slipping through your fingers, and no matter how hard you try, no matter how many extra shifts you take or how much you sacrifice, it won’t be enough.

It’s never enough.

You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “And if I say no?”

She exhales, pressing her lips together. She knew you’d ask that too.

“I won’t force you,” she says.

But there’s something in her tone—something weighted, something final.

Like she already knows what you’ll decide.

You grip the rag in your hands, wringing it tightly. The logical part of you is screaming to take the offer, to escape before this place crushes you completely.

But there’s another part—a small, stubborn part—that still resists.

Because this isn’t just a job. It’s your last piece of stability.

And if you let go now, what happens next?

Your best friend watches you carefully, waiting for you to make the final move.

And as much as you don’t want to admit it—

She’s already won.

━━━ ✦ ━━━

Your best friend isn’t the only one who’s been watching you.

You feel it again the next morning—the way your manager lingers near the counter longer than usual, the hesitant glances from the remaining staff, the way no one quite meets your eye.

And then, when the shift schedule is posted, your name is missing.

Your stomach twists as you scan the list again. It has to be a mistake.

But when you step into the back office, the café owner—a man who once trusted you with closing shifts, handling inventory, running this place like it was your own—only sighs, rubbing the back of his neck.

“We’re making adjustments,” he says, not unkindly. “With the way things are going… we have to cut hours where we can.”

You force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat. “So that’s it?”

“It’s not forever,” he assures you. A lie. You hear it in his voice. “It’s just temporary.”

You nod, but it feels like someone has pulled the ground from beneath you.

Because this isn’t temporary. You know that the same way you knew the café wouldn’t survive.

The decision was never truly yours.

And as you step out of the office—feeling weightless, untethered, already slipping into the next stage of your life—you think back to your best friend’s words.

"I don’t want to see you struggle anymore."

She had known.

She had known before you did.

And that’s what frightens you most of all.

End of Chapter Two.

noirscript © 2025

taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @fandangoballs @mel-vaz