Hello Mr Arrogant

A Taste Of His Own Medicine

The silence that followed William’s first bite of a red M&M was more deafening than the London rain machines. He stopped mid-chew, his jaw locking as he looked down at the bowl. The “sensory paradox” was gone, replaced by a glaring, crimson act of mutiny.

“Michelle,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrato. “I believe I specifically requested the green ones. These are… aggressively red.”

Michelle didn’t flinch. Instead, she tucked her tablet under her arm and looked him dead in the eye with a mask of professional serenity. “I consulted the dailies from this morning’s shoot. Your performance was leaning too heavily into melancholy. I decided that green was too soothing; you needed the agitation of red to keep the emotional tempo from flatlining. Eat it, William. It’s for the craft.”

A slow, unsettling smile spread across William’s face—the look of a man who had finally found a worthy opponent. He took another candy from her fingers, his gaze intense enough to burn. “Careful, Michelle,” he whispered. “If you start directing my performance, you might find yourself responsible for the ending. And I rarely play the hero who lets the girl go.”

“I’m not the girl in your movie, Mr. Denver,” she replied, turning on her heel as he stepped back into the artificial rain.

Whitney Reeves immediately emerged from the shadows, pulling Michelle toward the exit. She didn’t look angry; she looked like she was witnessing a high-speed car crash.

“That was either the smartest move of your career or the last one,” Whitney hissed, her eyes darting toward William. “He doesn’t like being managed, Michelle. He likes being served. You just handed him a challenge, and William Denver doesn’t lose.”

Whitney paused, her gaze traveling over Michelle’s ruined blazer and the “London rain” that had turned her professional silhouette into a soggy mess. With a sharp flick of her wrist, she reached into her slim designer clutch and pulled out a sleek, matte-black credit card.

“Take this. The Diamond executive fund,” Whitney said, pressing the card into Michelle’s palm. “Go to Rodeo Drive—now, before the shops close. You can’t handle a man like William looking like a drowned intern. If you’re going to go toe-to-toe with him, you need to match his aesthetic. High-end, sharp, and intimidating. Think of it as your armor.”

Michelle looked down at the card, the weight of the Diamond Entertainment logo feeling heavy in her hand. Whitney’s expression softened just a fraction, though the warning remained in her eyes. “He’s a visual creature, Michelle. If you look like a titan, he might just start treating you like one. Go. Six a.m. comes fast.”

By the time Michelle reached her apartment, she was surrounded by luxury shopping bags filled with tailored silk and structured wool—armor for the morning’s battle.

She had survived day one, but as she stood among the bags, she realized Whitney was right. The game hadn’t ended; the board had just been set, and tomorrow, she’d be dressed for the win.