Risk Contract: The CEO's Fake Wife

She sprinted across the lobby, ignoring the disapproving look of the receptionist, a woman whose perfectly coiffed bun seemed immune to the laws of physics. Livia balanced her purse, the stack of wet financial reports she had taken home to proofread, and the most important item of all: the venti cup of extra-strong, black, sugar-free coffee from the specific artisanal shop two blocks away. If the reports were wet, he would frown. If the coffee was cold, he would execute her with a look. She reached the bank of private elevators reserved for executives and their direct staff. She jabbed the 'up' button frantically. "Come on, come on..." she pleaded. The golden doors of the farthest elevator began to slide shut. Through the narrowing gap, she saw an empty car. Her salvation. "Hold it, please!" she shouted, desperation sharpening her voice. She didn't wait for a response. She lunged forward, shoving her hand into the gap. The sensors triggered, and the doors jerked back open. Livia stumbled inside, momentum carrying her forward. But the soles of her shoes were slick with oil and rainwater from the street. As her foot hit the polished granite floor of the elevator, she felt zero traction. The world spun in slow motion. It was a cinematic disaster. She felt her feet slide out from under her. Her arms flailed instinctively to break the fall. She saw the stack of reports go airborne, white pages fluttering like startled doves. And then, with a horror that froze her blood, she saw the coffee cup leave her hand. The lid popped off in mid-air. A dark, steaming ribbon of liquid drew an arc through the immaculate lighting of the elevator. And she saw exactly where it was going to land. Standing in the corner of the elevator, invisible from the hallway angle, was a man. Not just a man. The man. Stefano Ferraz stood there like a statue carved from judgment and wealth. He was looking at his phone, his posture rigid, wearing a white dress shirt that was so crisp it practically glowed. The coffee hit him square in the chest. It wasn't a splash; it was a direct hit. The dark liquid exploded against the white fabric, soaking instantly through to the skin, running down his torso in jagged, ugly rivers. It splattered onto his silk tie. It dripped onto his bespoke trousers. Livia hit the floor hard, her knees cracking against the stone, but she didn't feel the pain. She was too numb. The silence that settled in the elevator was heavier than the building itself. It was a suffocating, physical weight. The only sound was the soft drip, drip, drip of coffee falling from the hem of his jacket onto the floor.