Chapter 1: Cà Phê Đắng

Part 1

✨ **I demanded my fiancé fire his quiet assistant for ruining my $15,000 gown — then he canceled our engagement on the spot.**

I spent years building my career, going from nothing to a rising star in entertainment. I thought I’d made it when I got engaged to Brandon Shaw, an R&B superstar and heir to the Shaw Entertainment media empire.

But I underestimated a quiet personal assistant, whom I called a “worthless peasant” after she spilled coffee on my $15,000 dress. I demanded Brandon fire her immediately, believing I held absolute power. And then, he looked at me with disappointment and declared our engagement over on the spot.

My hands trembled slightly as I smoothed the silk of my custom gown. Tonight was the red carpet event, the one that would solidify my status as Seraphina Dubois, the A-list actress and future Mrs. Brandon Shaw. I was practically floating in my dressing room, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and the hum of anticipation. Every detail had to be perfect. The stylist was putting the finishing touches on my hair, and my publicist was already sending out pre-show tweets.

“Watch it!” I snapped, my voice cutting through the soft murmur of my glam squad. Imani, Brandon’s personal assistant, froze mid-step, her eyes wide with what looked like genuine alarm. A dark, ugly stain blossomed across the pristine white silk of my custom-made skirt, spreading like ink. My $15,000 dress. Ruined.

I felt a hot flush crawl up my neck, my carefully constructed composure crumbling. All eyes were on us, a hushed silence falling over the room. The cameras would be outside any minute, and I was supposed to be flawless.

“Are you serious right now, Imani?” I hissed, stepping back as if her very presence was contaminated.

“You clumsy, worthless peasant! What do you even do here besides make a mess? Get out of my sight!”

Imani’s face remained strangely unreadable, her gaze steady despite my outburst.

I called Brandon immediately, my voice shaking with outrage, my fury barely contained.

“She has to go, Brandon. Right now. I cannot have such sheer incompetence around me. This is unacceptable.”

He tried to calm my temper, suggesting it was just an accident, but I was adamant. I watched as Uncle Silas Shaw, the head of security, quietly escorted Imani from the room, her small, unresisting figure disappearing through the door. A small victory, I thought, a clear lesson taught about who held the real power.

Later that evening, after a frantic outfit change and a somewhat strained red-carpet appearance, I was back in my lavish hotel suite. I sat hunched over the table, reviewing my contract for an upcoming movie. The clauses were complex, particularly the backend residuals, and my agent had warned me about Shaw Entertainment’s notoriously tough negotiators. I frowned, circling a paragraph that seemed particularly ambiguous. My head was pounding, still replaying the earlier humiliation.

A soft, almost imperceptible tap sounded at my hotel suite door. Imani stood there, a fresh cup of chamomile tea in her hand, her expression as impassive as ever. She placed it gently on the table beside my scattered papers, her eyes briefly flicking to the circled paragraph.

“Miss Dubois,” she began softly, her voice a low murmur that somehow commanded attention. “Regarding the ‘Phoenix Rising’ contract.”

My head shot up, my pen clattering to the table. How could she possibly know? She had been escorted out hours ago, a mere assistant, banished from my presence.

“The 7.5% gross points are negotiable,” she continued without missing a beat, “but they’re firm on the 2% net after distribution. Your leverage is in securing the marketing spend guarantee in writing, and pushing for a staggered release bonus.”

She spoke with the quiet confidence of someone who had not only read the entire contract but understood its every intricate nuance, revealing details I hadn’t even discussed with Brandon himself, let alone shared with any assistant. My heart hammered against my ribs, a sudden, cold dread replacing my earlier anger. Who was this woman, really? And what did she truly know?

Part 2

My heart hammered against my ribs, a sudden, cold dread replacing my earlier anger. Who was this woman, really? And what did she truly know? I stared at Imani, searching her eyes for an answer, but they remained as unreadable as ever. She simply turned and walked out, leaving the tea and the unsettling quiet in her wake. I shook my head, dismissing the strange encounter as an anomaly. She must have overheard Brandon talking, I decided. That had to be it. I was Seraphina Dubois, and no assistant was going to rattle me.

Days turned into weeks, and my wedding preparations with Brandon continued at a furious pace. My career was soaring, and I was constantly juggling appearances, photo shoots, and recording sessions. Mani was still around, always quiet, always attentive. She seemed to anticipate my needs, almost before I knew them myself. But the “accidents” kept happening. My script for an important audition went missing, only to mysteriously reappear with coffee stains on a critical page. I snapped at her for her carelessness, pointing out the smudges as she quietly apologized.

Another time, a crucial social media post, meant to announce a major brand partnership, was uploaded with a glaring typo and the wrong product image. My publicist was furious. I confronted Mani, my voice sharp with frustration.

“This is your job, Imani,” I’d said, practically spitting the words. “To make sure these things are perfect. You’re paid to pay attention. Are you just trying to sabotage me?”

She just looked down, offering a soft, almost inaudible apology. Brandon, always busy with his own music and touring, would hear snippets of my complaints.

“Just staff issues, baby,” he’d say, waving a dismissive hand. “Don’t let it stress you out. Mani’s usually good. Maybe she’s overworked.”

He was oblivious, completely blind to the subtle warfare I felt was brewing. I just rolled my eyes, internally reaffirming my belief that some people just weren’t cut out for the big leagues. Mani was a placeholder, a background noise in my ascent.

The Shaw family held an exclusive dinner at their sprawling estate. It wasn’t a formal event, but important industry figures were always present. Tonight, a powerful movie producer, Mr. Kendrick, was there, a man whose word could launch or tank a career. Brandon and I were holding court, charming everyone. I felt like the queen of the room, my arm linked through Brandon’s, my smile dazzling. Mani was moving quietly through the background, refilling drinks, clearing plates, blending in with the other household staff. I barely registered her presence, just another face there to serve.

Brandon saw Mr. Kendrick admiring a piece of art on the wall.

“Mr. Kendrick,” Brandon called out, beaming. “Come, let me introduce you properly to the genius behind some of our most important deals.”

He gestured to Mani, who had just placed a fresh glass of iced tea on the table. My smile faltered, a prickle of annoyance starting to form. Why was he introducing *her*? She was just the help.

“Mani,” Brandon continued, his voice full of pride. “This is Mr. Kendrick, one of Hollywood’s true titans.”

Mani gave a polite, almost imperceptible nod.

“And Mani,” Brandon added, with a casual, almost offhand tone that ripped through my carefully constructed reality. “She’s not just my assistant, Mr. Kendrick. She’s my sister. Imani Shaw.”

My blood ran cold. The clinking of silverware, the polite laughter, the soft jazz music—everything blurred into an indistinct hum. My vision narrowed on Brandon, then on Imani, standing there with that same unreadable expression, but now it seemed to hold a quiet, knowing power. My fiancé’s *sister*? The “worthless peasant” I had routinely degraded, the “clumsy assistant” I had demanded he fire? She was a Shaw. One of *the* Shaws. And I had insulted her, humiliated her, demanded her dismissal, right to her face. My entire body stiffened, a wave of sickening understanding washing over me as I stared at her, frozen in utter disbelief.