From Mob Princess to Mugshot Photographer novel Chapter 72

**Chapter 5**

“Allison, I—”

The words that followed were lost in the chaos of the moment, fading into the background like an echo. To be honest, I didn’t care to decipher them.

With urgency, I snatched a napkin from the counter and gently dabbed at the tears streaming down Stella’s cheeks. “Come on, Stella,” I urged, trying to inject some strength into my voice. “Pull yourself together. We’ve got customers waiting.”

But instead of regaining her composure, Stella erupted like a volcano.

She turned her fierce gaze on Ryker, her jaw clenched tightly, and her eyes blazed with a fire I had never seen before.

In a fit of defiance, she slammed the grill cover shut with a resounding clang that echoed through the diner.

“Not selling!” she declared, her voice ringing with conviction.

“I’d rather toss every single one of these hot dogs to the homeless than sell one to this jerk!”

I didn’t intervene.

I didn’t tell her to calm down or take a breath.

Instead, I continued to prepare the buns with a steady hand, unfazed by the tension in the air.

If Stella wanted to take on Ryker, that was her decision.

But deep down, I knew I didn’t need her to fight my battles for me.

I had already emerged victorious in my own way.

A sudden gust of wind swept through the open door, swirling around us and scattering the steam that had been rising from the grill. It cleared just enough for me to catch a glimpse of Ryker’s dark, inscrutable eyes, which seemed to hold a lifetime of secrets.

Years had passed, yet he appeared unchanged.

Maybe a touch more composed, a hint more… settled within himself.

He reached into his wallet and pulled out two crisp hundred-dollar bills, placing them on the counter with a casualness that belied the tension in the room.

Without waiting for any sort of acknowledgment, he plucked a hot dog from the warmer and sank down onto a stool, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t flinch at the heat seeping into his palms; instead, he tore into the hot dog with a ravenous hunger, devouring it like a child who had finally found their way back home after wandering lost for far too long.

The way he ate didn’t reflect the image of a distinguished professor. No, it resembled a lost boy rediscovering a piece of his childhood.

When he finally finished, a smile broke across his face—a genuine, unguarded expression.

“Still tastes the same. Hasn’t changed at all,” he said, nostalgia lacing his words.

“Allison, you have no idea how long I’ve been craving this,” he added, his eyes softening with a warmth that tugged at something deep within me. In that moment, I finally recognized the flicker of familiarity that had sparked in my chest.

Ryker and I had shared countless afternoons in this very diner as kids, helping out and laughing together.

But then my father had discovered Ryker’s extraordinary talent for mathematics.

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