Even back then, Damien Caldwell was already something of an enigma. Reporters chased after him constantly, yet none of them succeeded. He avoided publicity, turned down interviews, and slipped away whenever cameras appeared. He clearly disliked being in the spotlight. But I wasn’t willing to fail like everyone else. I wanted to be the one who got through to him.
So I came up with a plan.
I applied for a job at one of his cafés—as a barista.
Yes, I lied. At the time, I convinced myself it was harmless, just a professional tactic—a small disguise to secure an exclusive interview. But thinking about it now, I realize maybe that was where it all began… the lies, starting small and harmless, eventually growing into the tangled web I’m trapped in today.
For several weeks, I worked behind the counter, pretending to learn about coffee blends while secretly observing him. He visited often—tall and composed, usually carrying a book in one hand and an espresso in the other. He rarely spoke, keeping conversations brief, mostly with the manager. Customers whispered about him, but he always seemed distant, unreachable.
Then one afternoon, I accidentally spilled coffee onto my apron. I was fumbling with napkins, embarrassed, when I felt someone watching me.
Our eyes met.
He gave me a small smile—just a slight lift of his lips, polite and restrained. “You must be new,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, and unexpectedly gentle.
“I just started,” I replied, forcing out a nervous laugh as my cheeks warmed.
That brief exchange ended quickly, but something shifted after that. I started noticing him more closely. Quietly, from a distance, I paid attention to his habits—which branches he preferred, the type of beans he chose, how he always dropped exactly one cube of sugar into his espresso before stirring.
Eventually, he caught me.
He turned around one day and looked straight at me, his gaze calm but knowing.
“I’m aware you’ve been following me,” he said, sounding more amused than annoyed. “But my answer hasn’t changed.”
I blinked, confused. “Answer…?”
“To your interview request,” he clarified. “You’re not the first reporter who’s tried something like this.”
Then he walked away.
But there was something in his tone—part teasing, part intrigued—that kept me from giving up. I approached him again. And again. I kept trying, refusing to let the opportunity slip away. Eventually, he relented.