Episode 1: Aggravated coffee assault.
Lena's POV
“Me?” My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets.
“Lena, I hope you left your clumsiness at home because we’re talking about Pearce Alexander Ashinton the Third, sole heir to the Ashinton fortune.” Mr. Gerald fixed me with a warning look across his desk. “This is an honour, and you’re already late. He likes his coffee from Matte Café—steaming hot and on his desk before nine."
“Oh my God.”
I rushed toward the door before stopping abruptly.
“Wait. This is not in my job description.”
“His assistant called in sick, his second assistant is away on a business trip, and the third is representing him at a meeting elsewhere.” He adjusted his glasses. “People would kill for the chance to serve Sir Pearce’s coffee.”
I pulled the door open with a sigh.
“Well, I wouldn’t kill to run errands,” I muttered under my breath as I headed straight for the coffee shop.
By the time I got to Matte Café, the line stretched almost to the entrance.
Perfect.
Exactly what I needed when the richest man in Manhattan apparently measured loyalty through caffeine.
I checked the time on my phone again and groaned.
Eight forty-three.
If I lost this job over coffee, I was genuinely going to start a criminal career.
The cashier finally called my number ten painful minutes later.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
“Coffee,” I replied impatiently.
She blinked. “...What kind of coffee?”
“Huh?”
My hand flew to my mouth as realization hit me.
Nobody told me what coffee he actually drank.
I leaned closer to the counter.
“What coffee does Sir Pearce—the heir of that giant building over there—normally take?”
The cashier gave me an awkward look.
“Uh... I wouldn’t know. I’m new here. Can you step aside while I help the next customer?”
Panic clawed at my chest.
“What coffee do rich people usually drink?” I asked desperately.
She glanced behind her like she was considering whether answering would get her fired. "Mostly hot Americanos. No sugar."
“That sounds rich enough.”
The cashier slowly nodded.
“One hot Americano coming up.”
Less than a minute later, she handed me the cup.
I grabbed it like it contained the cure to unemployment.
“Thank you,” I breathed. “You’re literally a lifesaver.”
Then I ran out of the café before my future could collapse completely.
By the time I rushed back into Ashinton Holdings, my lungs were burning and the coffee in my hand was dangerously close to spilling for the third time, the paper lid already scorching the base of my palm as I clutched it tighter.
The giant clock hanging above the lobby ticked mercilessly toward nine.
I was doomed.
Completely and embarrassingly doomed.
I hurried toward the reception desk.
“Excuse me,” I said breathlessly. “Where’s Sir Pearce’s office?”
The three receptionists looked up at me at once.
One of them frowned slightly. “What department are you from?”
“Sales and marketing,” I replied, lifting my ID badge with one hand.
The silence that followed made me feel like I had accidentally confessed to a crime. All three of them looked at me, then at each other, in the specific way people do when they're deciding how much pity is appropriate.
Because honestly, what business did a sales marketer have anywhere near Pearce Alexander Ashinton the Third?
Finally, one of them pointed toward a private hallway.
“Use the VIP elevator. Last floor.”
“Thank you!”
I practically sprinted toward the elevator and stabbed the button impatiently.
The doors slid open almost immediately.
Thank God.
Without looking up, I rushed inside—
And crashed straight into someone.
Hot coffee splashed everywhere.
A deep voice hissed sharply.
I froze.
Slowly, painfully slowly, my eyes lifted.
And—
Oh.
Oh no.
The man standing before me looked like he had walked directly out of a billionaire fantasy and into my personal nightmare.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark suit.
Sharp jawline.
And eyes cold enough to make me forget the coffee burning through my palm. He went completely still for a beat, coffee dripping down the front of his jacket that probably cost more than my car.
For one stupid, horrifying second, I forgot how to breathe.
He was ridiculously handsome.
Then panic slammed back into me.
My eyes darted toward the digital clock in the hallway.
9:00 AM.
Exactly.
“This is not happening,” I whispered.
The stranger stared at me in stunned silence.
And instead of apologizing like a normxal person—
I ran.
I spun around and bolted out of the elevator before he could say a single word.
Because the coffee was gone, and it was already past 9:00 a.m.
And I had just assaulted some terrifyingly attractive executive with hot caffeine.
As I rushed back toward the reception desk in complete panic, one of the women looked up in confusion.
“You’re back already?”
“What coffee does Sir Pearce actually drink?” I nearly shouted.
The receptionist blinked.
“Caramel vanilla latte. Extra cream.”
I stopped so abruptly I almost collapsed.
My eye twitched.
I looked slowly down at the empty Americano cup still clutched in my hand.
Then back at her.
“You’re telling me,” I said weakly, “that I committed aggravated coffee assault with the wrong drink?”
I took off.
The right coffee burned slightly through the cup lid as I rushed back into Ashinton Holdings, nearly tripping twice before I even reached the elevator.
“Thank you,” I mouthed quickly to the receptionist who had saved my entire employment status.
She gave me a sympathetic smile.
That was not comforting.
The elevator ride felt slow.
"Ohhh God pleaseeee." I muttered under my breath.
By the time I reached the executive floor, my hands were shaking again.
I stood outside his office for exactly three seconds.
Then knocked once and stepped inside.
The office was enormous.
Glass walls.
City skyline stretching endlessly behind him.
And Pearce Alexander Ashinton the Third stood with his back turned to me, one hand in his pocket, the other resting lightly against the glass as if he owned the entire world outside it.
He didn’t acknowledge me at all, almost as though he wasn’t aware someone had just walked in.
I swallowed, my grip tightening on the coffee cup.
Just leave it on the desk, Lena. Just leave it and run. Problem solved.
That was my first thought.
But my first thought always lands me in trouble, so I always go with the second.
My feet moved forward quietly.
I reached him.
And at that exact moment, he turned too fast.
We collided.
The coffee flew.
Hot liquid spilled all over his shirt.
Everything stopped. My brain included.
I stared at him in horror.
He looked down slowly.
“Jesus f*****g Christ.”
Then very slowly, his head lifted.
His eyes darkened with something between disbelief and rage.
“Who the hell are—”
His eyes narrowed.
“…you again?”
