20 Y/O Went To Yacht Party With New Guy—found 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝 | HO

She thought she’d finally met a kind, wealthy guy who saw her for who she was. He took her to a glamorous yacht party, showered her with gifts, and promised the world… By morning, her body was found floating in the ocean.

The Harborview Restaurant in Santa Barbara hummed with the evening rush—silverware clinking against plates, the low thrum of conversation, and the occasional burst of laughter from a corner booth celebrating a birthday.

Serena Carter moved between tables with the practiced efficiency of someone who had learned to carry three plates on one arm and a full tray of drinks in the other. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and her smile—the professional one she could summon on command—never quite reached her eyes.

She was twenty years old, and her life was a spreadsheet: business administration classes at Santa Barbara City College from eight until noon, studying from one until four, then a six-hour shift at Harborview that often stretched into overtime. Every dollar from her tips went into a coffee can in her closet. The goal was printed on a sticky note above her desk: Cafe Serena—$19,500 to go.

“Serena, table seven needs a refill,” Mary called out from behind the bar, nodding toward a corner booth where a young man sat alone. Serena hadn’t noticed him before. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and dark jeans that probably cost more than her monthly rent.

A watch caught the light—something expensive, something real. When she approached, he looked up from his phone and smiled. It was the kind of smile that made her forget, just for a second, that she was supposed to be invisible.

“Welcome to Harborview. What can I get for you?”

“Vincent,” he said, extending his hand across the table. Most customers didn’t try to shake hands with their waitress. “And you’re Serena. I asked Mary.”

Serena hesitated, then shook his hand. His palm was soft, unmarked by the kind of work she knew. “That’s unusual.”

“What is?”

“Introducing yourself. Most people just order.”

“Most people are missing the point.” He finally withdrew his hand, but his eyes didn’t leave her face. “What would you recommend? And don’t say the salmon special just because your manager told you to.”

Over the next hour, Vincent ordered coffee after coffee, lingering long after his plate had been cleared. He asked about her major, her schedule, her dreams. He told her he’d just finished a business degree at Loyola Marymount in Los Angeles, that his father owned Morgan Construction, but that he wanted to build something of his own.

“I’m not the type to just coast,” he said, and something about that landed differently than it should have. Serena had heard plenty of lines from customers. This one felt rehearsed, maybe, but also sincere—like he actually believed it.

When her shift ended at eleven, he was waiting by the employee entrance.

“Can I walk you to your car?”

“I have a car,” she said, pointing to the beat-up 2008 Honda Civic with the dented bumper.

“I’m not talking about the car. I just want to keep talking to you.”

She should have said no. Her brother Mark had taught her that much—don’t trust the ones who wait, he always said. But Vincent wasn’t pushy. He wasn’t grabbing her arm or making crude jokes or asking if she had a boyfriend. He just walked beside her along the waterfront, hands in his pockets, listening like every word she said mattered.

“You’re different,” he said when they reached her car. “The girls in my circle—they’re empty. They live from party to party, spend their daddy’s money, and think the world owes them something. You’re real. You’re fighting for something.”

That night, Serena lay awake for a long time. Mark was already asleep on the couch in their tiny apartment—he worked the early shift at the port, loading containers starting at 6 a.m., and he was usually unconscious by ten. She stared at the ceiling and replayed Vincent’s words. You’re real. It felt good to be seen. Maybe too good.

—

The next evening, Vincent was back at table seven. And the evening after that. He came every two or three days, always ordered something simple, always waited for her shift to end. Their walks grew longer—fifteen minutes became an hour, became two.

He talked about his father’s pressure, the weight of expectations, the loneliness of a mansion where the servants knew him better than his own parents. Serena talked about her parents—the car accident four years ago, the way Mark had dropped out of community college to support her, the coffee can in her closet with the $19,500 goal.

“You could open that cafe tomorrow if you let me help,” Vincent said one night, stopping in front of her apartment building.

“Vincent—”

“I’m not talking about charity. I’m talking about an investment. In you. In us.”

“We’ve known each other for three weeks.”

“Sometimes three weeks is enough.” He stepped closer, and for a moment, Serena felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing. “I’m serious about you, Serena. Very serious.”

She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no either.

Mark was waiting up for her when she came inside. He was twenty-six, with broad shoulders and hands cracked from loading cargo, and he had the kind of face that didn’t hide anything. “You’re different,” he said, echoing Vincent’s words but meaning something else entirely. “You’re checking your phone every five minutes. You canceled our Sunday breakfast two weeks in a row.”

“Mark, he’s not—”

“I did some research.” Mark pulled out his phone and showed her a screen. “Vincent Morgan. Last year, a girl at Loyola Marymount accused him of sexual assault. Her name was Ashley Davis. The case got dropped after his father wrote a check.”

Serena felt the floor tilt. “That could be anything. People lie.”

“Do they? Ashley Davis transferred to University of Texas within a month. Her family received a settlement reported at $75,000. That’s not a rumor, Serena. That’s a paper trail.”

She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell Mark he was being overprotective, that Vincent was different, that he saw her—really saw her—in a way no one had since their parents died. But the words stuck in her throat. Because she had noticed things too. The way Vincent asked about her schedule, her friends, the men who came into the restaurant. The way his questions sometimes felt less like curiosity and more like inventory.

“I’m just asking you to be careful,” Mark said. “Don’t give him power over you that he hasn’t earned.”

—

The next day, Vincent picked her up from college in his BMW. Jen watched from the curb, eyes wide. “Morgan Construction?” she had whispered earlier. “Serena, do you know how rich they are?” Serena hadn’t known. She was learning.

“I want to take you somewhere,” Vincent said, pulling onto the 101 North. “My parents are away. I want you to see the house.”

The Morgan mansion sat on five acres in Montecito, behind gates that opened automatically when Vincent’s car approached. Serena had driven past these estates before, wondering what kind of lives happened behind the hedges and security cameras.

Now she was inside one. Marble floors. Original paintings. A wine cellar that looked like a cathedral. Vincent gave her the tour like a docent showing off someone else’s museum—proud, but distant, like the splendor embarrassed him.

“It’s beautiful,” Serena said, standing on the terrace as the sun dipped toward the Pacific.

“It’s lonely,” Vincent replied. “You know what’s strange? I spent my whole childhood here, but this place never felt like home. Too big. Too cold.” He turned to look at her. “Your apartment—the one you share with your brother—that sounds like home. The Sunday breakfasts, the garage workshop, the coffee can in your closet. That’s real.”

He kissed her then, gentle at first, then harder, and Serena felt herself sinking into it. His hands on her back, the smell of his cologne, the way he said her name like it was something precious. When she pulled away, breathless, he was smiling.

“See? This is what I’m talking about. You and me—we make sense.”

But on the drive back to her apartment, he asked a question that made her stomach clench. “That friend of yours—Jen. She mentioned a guy named Michael. An old fling?”

Serena blinked. “She told you about Michael?”

“She said you went on a few dates last semester. I just want to know everything about you. Is that a crime?”

“No,” Serena said slowly. “But Jen shouldn’t be—”

“I asked.” Vincent’s voice was light, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. “She’s a talker. Easy to get information from. You should be careful what you tell her.”

The words landed wrong. You should be careful. Not she should be careful. You.

—

The yacht party invitation came on Friday. Vincent showed up at the restaurant with a gleam in his eyes and a velvet box containing diamond stud earrings. “My parents are throwing a party on the Golden Dream tomorrow night. I want you there. I want everyone to see you.”

“A yacht party.” Serena stared at the earrings. “Vincent, I don’t have anything to wear to something like that.”

“Already handled.”

The next day, he took her to a boutique on State Street where the saleswoman looked at Serena’s jeans and nodded like she was diagnosing a problem. Vincent picked out two dresses—one navy, one champagne—and a pair of heels that cost $700. Serena did the math in her head. That was two months of her tips. Three months of groceries. When she tried to object, Vincent waved his hand.

“You’re worth it. Besides, it’s an investment. If you’re going to be with me, you’ll need the appropriate wardrobe.”

If you’re going to be with me. Not if you want to. Not if that’s what you choose.

On the morning of the party, Mark cornered her in the kitchen. “Don’t go.”

“Mark—”

“Serena, please.” His voice cracked. “I have a bad feeling about this. About him. About all of it.”

“I’ll be fine. Vincent will be there.”

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

She went anyway. Vincent picked her up at four, the champagne dress hugging her body in a way that felt like costume. He drove her to the marina where the Golden Dream waited—eighty feet of gleaming white fiberglass and teak, crew members in crisp uniforms, guests who looked like they’d stepped out of a magazine. Thomas Morgan shook her hand like she was applying for a job. Patricia kissed her cheek like she was inspecting produce.

“What an unusual dress,” Patricia said, and Serena couldn’t tell if it was a compliment or an autopsy.

The yacht pushed off at sunset. Serena stood at the rail, watching the Santa Barbara coastline shrink, and felt something she couldn’t name—not fear exactly, but its shadow. Vincent kept his hand on her lower back all evening, steering her from group to group, introducing her as “my girlfriend, Serena” even though they’d never had that conversation. His friends asked polite questions. The women looked at her dress and nodded like they recognized it from a catalog.

“Serena is studying business,” Vincent told a group of his father’s colleagues. “She’s very ambitious.”

“How lovely,” said a woman in diamonds. “And where do you work, dear?”

“Harborview. The restaurant near the marina.”

“Oh, we order from there sometimes. For the staff.”

Serena felt the words like a slap, but Vincent just laughed. “Serena is one of their best employees. She’s saving up to open her own cafe.”

“Admirable,” the woman said, and turned away.

—

By ten o’clock, the alcohol was flowing freely. Vincent had been drinking steadily—champagne, then wine, then something amber from a crystal decanter. His hand on Serena’s back had become heavier, less casual. When she tried to step away, he pulled her back.

“Where are you going?”

“To the restroom.”

“You’ve been three times in the last hour.”

“I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be.” His eyes were glassy, his smile tight. “You’re with me. No one here is going to hurt you.”

No one except you, Serena thought, and the thought scared her because she didn’t know where it came from.

At eleven, Vincent led her down to the lower deck. The cabin was spacious—king bed, marble bathroom, a porthole that framed the dark water. He closed the door and locked it. Serena heard the click and felt her heart start to race.

“Finally,” Vincent said, loosening his tie. “Alone.”

“Vincent, we should get back to the party. Your parents—”

“My parents don’t care where I am.” He sat on the edge of the bed and patted the spot next to him. “Come here. I want to talk to you.”

Serena stayed by the door. “We can talk upstairs.”

“Serena.” His voice hardened. “Come here.”

“I’m not feeling well. I think I want to go home.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” He stood up, and suddenly the cabin felt very small. “I’ve done everything for you. The dresses, the jewelry, the dinners. I introduced you to my parents. I told everyone you were my girlfriend. And you can’t even sit next to me?”

“That’s not—”

“What did you think this was?” He took a step toward her. “Did you think I was doing this out of the goodness of my heart? That’s not how the world works, Serena. You don’t get to take and take and take without giving something back.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it. You offered.”

“And you accepted.” Another step. “You wore the dresses. You got in my car. You came on this yacht. Every step of the way, you said yes.”

Serena’s back hit the door. “Vincent, you’re scaring me.”

“Good.” He grabbed her wrists. “Maybe you should be scared.”

—

She tried to push past him. He blocked her. She tried to scream, but his hand closed around her throat before the sound could leave her mouth. His fingers pressed into her windpipe, and the world started to go gray at the edges. She clawed at his arms—left scratches, deep ones—but he didn’t stop. His face was close to hers, and his eyes weren’t the eyes she’d seen over coffee and waterfront walks. They were something else. Something that had been waiting.

“You think you can say no to me?” His voice was a whisper, almost tender. “I’m Vincent Morgan. No one says no to me.”

Serena stopped struggling. Not because she wanted to—because her body had no more fight left in it. The last thing she saw was the porthole, the dark water, the reflection of the cabin lights on the waves. Then nothing.

Vincent held on for another thirty seconds after she went limp. When he finally let go, her body crumpled to the floor. He stood over her, breathing hard, waiting for her to cough or move or do something that would undo what he’d just done. She didn’t.

“Serena.” He nudged her with his foot. “Serena, wake up.”

She didn’t.

He backed away, hit the wall, slid down to the floor. His hands were shaking. There were scratches on his forearms—deep ones, bleeding. He looked at the body on the floor and realized what he’d done. Killed her. Actually killed her.

The party was still going on upstairs. He could hear music, laughter, the clink of glasses. No one knew. No one had to know.

Vincent pulled himself together. He changed his shirt, washed the blood off his arms, and arranged Serena’s body on the floor near the porthole. Then he went upstairs and spent forty-five minutes on the deck, laughing at jokes, accepting drinks, asking his mother if she’d seen Serena because “she wasn’t feeling well and I’m getting worried.”

At 12:45 a.m., he excused himself to check on her. He went below, picked up her body—lighter than he expected—and carried it to the stern deck through the service exit. He found a lifebuoy and hit her head with it three times, hard enough to mask the finger marks on her throat. Then he lifted her over the rail and let go.

The water swallowed her without a sound.

—

The Coast Guard found Serena’s body at 5:52 a.m., two miles from where Vincent had dumped her. The current had carried her toward shore, and a fisherman spotted something floating near the kelp beds. By six, Detective Sarah Collins was at the morgue, standing over a stainless steel table, watching Dr. Richards point to the bruises on the dead girl’s neck.

“Those aren’t from marine life,” Collins said.

“No,” the pathologist agreed. “They’re finger marks. She was strangled before she went into the water.”

Collins looked at the file. Serena Carter, twenty years old. Waitress. Business student. Lived with her brother in a working-class neighborhood. Last seen at a yacht party hosted by Thomas Morgan, CEO of Morgan Construction.

“The Morgans,” Collins said.

“You know them?”

“Everyone knows them.” She pulled out her phone and called her partner. “Ramirez, we’ve got a body. Get a warrant for the Golden Dream and find out everything you can about a man named Vincent Morgan.”

—

By noon, Collins was on the yacht. The guests had gone home, but the crew was still there—pale, quiet, avoiding eye contact. Vincent sat in the main salon with his parents and a lawyer named Gerald Vance, the kind of attorney who charged by the hour and made sure you knew it.

“Mr. Morgan,” Collins said, sitting across from him, “can you tell me about last night?”

Vincent’s eyes were red, his face drawn. He looked like he hadn’t slept. “Serena and I were dating. She was special. I brought her to the party because I wanted my family to meet her.”

“When was the last time you saw her alive?”

“Around eleven. She wasn’t feeling well—seasick, I think. She went to rest in the cabin. I checked on her at midnight, and she was asleep, so I went back upstairs.”

“You went into the cabin?”

“No. I just looked through the door. I didn’t want to wake her.”

“And after that?”

“At one in the morning, I went to check on her again, and she was gone. I searched the whole yacht. I called her name. I—” His voice cracked. “I loved her, Detective. I would never hurt her.”

Collins wrote everything down. Then she asked to speak to the other guests.

Over the next four hours, she interviewed fifteen people. The picture that emerged was different from Vincent’s. He was possessive, one woman said. He kept his hand on her all night, like she was a purse he was afraid someone would steal. She looked uncomfortable. Tense. At one point, I saw them arguing near the bar. He grabbed her arm, and she pulled away. Another guest mentioned that Serena had seemed “trapped,” like she wanted to leave but didn’t know how. A third said she’d overheard Vincent say, “You owe me,” though she couldn’t remember the context.

Collins returned to the station and pulled Vincent Morgan’s record. What she found made her sit back in her chair.

Ashley Davis, 19. Reported sexual assault in March of the previous year. Bruising on wrists and neck. Medical exam confirmed non-consensual penetration. Case dropped three weeks later. Victim withdrew statement and transferred to University of Texas. Unofficial note in the file: Family received settlement of $75,000. University applied pressure.

Tessa Nguyen, 20. Filed a harassment complaint six months after the Davis case. Alleged Vincent followed her, showed up at her job, sent 47 text messages in one night after she stopped responding. Complaint closed due to “insufficient evidence.”

Megan Holloway, 21. No formal complaint, but a recorded interview with campus security mentioned Vincent “getting angry when she said no” and “pinning her against a wall until she agreed to go to his room.”

Collins printed everything and spread it across her desk. Then she called the lab.

“Fingerprints. DNA. I want everything you can get from that cabin.”

—

The DNA results came back on Wednesday. Technicians had found skin cells under Serena Carter’s fingernails—not much, but enough. The profile matched Vincent Morgan with 99.97 percent certainty. The scratches on his forearms, the ones he’d told the crew were from “a run-in with a bush” while walking home? Those weren’t from a bush. They were from Serena’s fingernails, fighting for her life.

The security footage arrived on Thursday. A neighboring yacht, the Sea Breeze, had a camera mounted on its stern that happened to capture part of the Golden Dream’s aft deck. The footage was grainy, shot from three hundred yards away, but the forensic analyst enhanced it enough to see what happened at 12:47 a.m.: a figure in a light-colored shirt emerged from the service door, carrying something heavy. The figure walked to the rail, leaned over, and dropped the object into the water. Then it stood there for a full minute before turning and walking away.

“Can you identify the figure?” Collins asked.

“Not with certainty,” the analyst said. “But the height and build match Vincent Morgan. And the object he’s carrying—the dimensions are consistent with a human body.”

Collins had what she needed.

—

On Friday morning, she presented the case to the district attorney. Prosecutor Elena Jennings reviewed the evidence—the DNA, the footage, the witness statements, the history of prior allegations—and signed the arrest warrant. “But be careful,” Jennings warned. “The Morgans have deep pockets and longer memories. They’re going to fight this dirty.”

They did.

Within hours of Vincent’s arrest at dawn on Saturday, Thomas Morgan had issued a press release expressing “profound sorrow” over Serena’s “tragic accident” and full confidence in his son’s innocence. Morgan Construction’s PR firm flooded local media with stories about Vincent’s philanthropy, his academic achievements, his “bright future” that had been “shattered by a terrible misunderstanding.” Anonymous sources began leaking information to reporters—Serena had been drinking, they said. She had a history of instability. Her brother had a criminal record (he didn’t; Mark had a single speeding ticket from 2019). The implication was clear: Serena Carter wasn’t the kind of girl you could trust.

Collins watched the smear campaign unfold and felt her jaw tighten. She’d seen this before—rich families rewriting reality, turning victims into villains, burying the truth under an avalanche of PR. But she also knew that evidence didn’t care about press releases. DNA didn’t have a political affiliation.

She called Mark Carter and asked him to come to the station.

—

Mark looked smaller than Collins expected. He was broad-shouldered, built from years of loading cargo, but grief had hollowed him out. His eyes were rimmed red, and he kept rubbing his thumb across the screen of Serena’s phone—the one she’d left in their apartment, the one the police hadn’t found until Tuesday.

“I want you to see something,” Collins said, handing him a printed transcript of text messages between Serena and her friend Jen.

Serena, Oct 12: He asked me where I was every hour last night. I told him I was at work, but he made me send a photo. Is that normal?

Jen: No. That’s not normal.

Serena, Oct 14: He got mad because I didn’t answer my phone during class. 12 missed calls. He said if I cared about him, I’d keep my ringer on.

Jen: Serena, this is scary. You need to get out.

Serena, Oct 18: I tried to break up with him. He showed up at my apartment and cried for an hour. Said I was the only good thing in his life. Said if I left him, he’d have nothing. I didn’t know what to do.

Jen: Block his number. Tell Mark. I’m serious.

Serena, Oct 20 (the morning of the yacht party): I don’t want to go. But he spent $700 on a dress for me. He keeps saying I owe him. What do I do?

Jen: You don’t owe him anything. Stay home. I’ll come over.

Serena: I can’t. He’s already on his way to pick me up. I’ll be okay. I’ll text you when I get home.

That was the last message Serena ever sent.

Mark put the phone down and pressed his palms against his eyes. “She was scared of him. She was scared, and she didn’t tell me.”

“She was trying to handle it on her own,” Collins said. “That’s not your fault.”

“It’s his fault. He did this. He killed her because she tried to say no.”

Collins didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

—

The trial began six months later. The courtroom was packed—reporters, law students, friends of the Morgan family, friends of Serena’s. Mark sat in the front row every day, clutching the coffee can from Serena’s closet. Inside was $19,500 in crumpled bills and loose change, her dream of a cafe, the future Vincent had stolen.

Prosecutor Jennings laid out the case methodically. The DNA under Serena’s fingernails. The security footage from the Sea Breeze. The text messages documenting Vincent’s escalating control. The testimony of three women who had survived what Serena hadn’t—Ashley Davis, Tessa Nguyen, and Megan Holloway, each describing the same pattern: charm, isolation, pressure, rage.

The defense argued accident. Vincent’s lawyer, Gerald Vance, told the jury that Serena had been drinking, that she’d wandered onto the aft deck alone, that she’d slipped and hit her head and fallen overboard in a tragic accident. Vincent’s scratches? He’d gotten them while trying to save her. The DNA under her fingernails? They’d had consensual sex earlier that evening—she was his girlfriend, after all. The text messages? “The normal anxieties of a young woman in her first serious relationship.”

But the prosecution had one more piece of evidence. A lifebuoy from the Golden Dream, recovered from the water near where Serena’s body was found. Forensic analysis revealed traces of her blood and hair on the buoy’s plastic surface. The pattern of impact was consistent with three deliberate strikes—not an accident, not a fall. A beating. Intended to disguise the finger marks on her throat.

Vincent took the stand in his own defense. He was composed, well-dressed, remorseful in all the right places. He described his love for Serena, his devastation at her death, his “eternal regret” that he hadn’t been able to save her. Under cross-examination, Prosecutor Jennings asked him a single question:

“If you loved her so much, Mr. Morgan, why did you wait forty-five minutes to report her missing?”

Vincent blinked. “I—I thought she was in the cabin. I didn’t want to disturb her.”

“You checked on her at midnight and saw her asleep. You went back at one in the morning and she was gone. But you didn’t tell anyone for forty-five minutes. You didn’t ask the crew to search. You didn’t call the Coast Guard. Instead, you went back to the party and had a drink with your father’s business partner. Why?”

Vincent’s composure cracked. “I was in shock. I didn’t know what to do.”

“You knew what to do when you hit her in the head with a lifebuoy. You knew what to do when you threw her body overboard. You knew what to do when you lied to the police. The only thing you didn’t know was how to pretend to love someone you’d just murdered.”

The jury deliberated for eleven hours.

—

The verdict came down on a Friday, six months and three days after Serena’s body was found in the kelp beds. The courtroom was silent as the foreman stood.

“On the charge of murder in the first degree, we find the defendant guilty.”

Vincent Morgan didn’t react. His face went blank, then pale, then gray. His mother started to cry. His father sat motionless, staring straight ahead. Mark Carter put his hand on the coffee can and finally, finally let himself weep.

The judge sentenced Vincent to life in prison without the possibility of parole. “You took a young woman’s future,” she said, “not because she wronged you, but because she refused to be owned by you. That is not a crime of passion. That is a crime of entitlement. And this court will not tolerate it.”

After the sentencing, Collins stood outside the courthouse and watched Mark Carter speak to reporters. He held up the coffee can—$19,500 in crumpled bills and loose change, Serena’s dream of a cafe, the future she would never have.

“We’re starting a scholarship fund in her name,” Mark said. “For young women who want to go to business school. For anyone who needs a hand up. That’s what Serena would have wanted.”

The Morgan family’s empire didn’t collapse, but it cracked. Thomas Morgan lost three major government contracts in the aftermath of the trial. Patricia Morgan resigned from her charitable boards. The family sold the Montecito mansion and moved to a quieter house in Carpinteria, far from the ocean views and the questions from neighbors.

Vincent Morgan will spend the rest of his life in Corcoran State Prison, in a cell designed for men who thought they were above the law. He writes letters to his mother every week. She doesn’t write back.

Serena Carter is buried in the Santa Barbara Cemetery, on a hill overlooking the water. Her headstone reads: Beloved daughter, sister, and dreamer. She fought for everything she had. On the anniversary of her death every year, someone leaves a coffee can on her grave—empty now, but full of meaning. A reminder that some futures can’t be stolen. A reminder that some girls fight back, even when they lose.

The coffee can from Serena’s closet sits on Mark’s mantelpiece. He keeps it there, next to a photo of the two of them at his high school graduation—her arms around his neck, both of them laughing, both of them too young to understand how cruel the world could be. Some nights, he opens the can and counts the money inside. $19,500. Enough to open a small cafe. Enough to change someone’s life.

He’s thinking about doing it. Not for himself. For her.

Cafe Serena. It has a nice ring to it.