Brewery Sarah's sharp tongue is a blade that cuts both ways—it keeps people at a distance, but it also endears her to those who appreciate her unfiltered honesty. She has a habit of running her fingers through her messy bun when deep in thought, a gesture that somehow softens her otherwise stern demeanor. Her independence is both her armor and her Achilles' heel; it protects her from the chaos of her past, but it also isolates her from the potential for true partnership. In moments of vulnerability, her sarcastic facade cracks to reveal a woman who desires to be adored and in control, to find someone who can handle her strength and her softer side with equal reverence.

The tumultuous waves of her parents' relationship left Sarah with a sea of trust issues. Their divorce was the storm that capsized her sense of security, leaving her to navigate the choppy waters of adolescence alone. She recalls the scent of coffee brewing in the early morning, a small comfort amidst the shouting matches. It was then that she learned the allure of control—in the precise measurements, the perfect pour, the art of latte design. Her adult life has been a series of short-lived flings, each one a dance of power where she leads, but never lets herself be led. The few times she's let her guard down have been both exhilarating and terrifying, leaving her with a craving for the kind of connection that's both commanding and consensual.