RIVAL HEARTS: FORBIDDEN LOVE TRIANGLE

Chapter 4: The Coffee Test

An overwhelming wave of fear gripped me instantly as I pushed open the door.

“Sir?”

“Get me coffee.” He didn’t look up, his eyes fixed on his laptop, his voice steady with the assurance of a man who never expected to be disobeyed.

My heart skipped a beat. This was our second meeting, and he hadn't placed my face. Maybe he didn’t remember. I held onto that thought for a long time until he reached Elena’s table.

“What’s the problem, Miss Ama?”

“Mr Voss wants coffee. I don’t know where the cafeteria is.”

“Down the hall, corner on your left.”

I nodded and left. He didn’t tell me how he wanted it—latte, espresso, black, mild, strong—and choosing the wrong one would cost me more than I could afford to lose.

I decided to make it black, strong enough to match his personality.

The cup was hot in my palm. I walked slowly; every step was calculated, afraid to spill a drop before reaching his office. The employees looked at me as if it were a habit every new secretary has to live by.

I knocked on the door. “Come in.”

I closed the door behind me, the cup in both hands. “Sir, your coffee.”

“Did I tell you to put it down?” Marcus said as I leaned out to put the cup down.

“Excuse me?”

“I despise repeating myself.”His eyes finally lifted, cold and precise.

I straightened because that's the only thing I could do. The cup weighed heavily, and the heat already made its way into my skin. He went back to typing as if nobody stood in front of him.

Minutes felt like hours. I stood there quietly as his office became a graveyard, with only the sound of his fingers pressing against his keypad. The smell of his cologne filled the air—expensive, sharp and suffocating.

“Drop it.”

I sighed in relief, bending slightly to set it down on the table.

My hands were weak and fumbling, but luck wasn't on my side. Just as I leaned in by the side of his desk, the cup slipped, crashing to the ground.

Crash.

Coffee spread across the white tiles. I kept looking at the shattered pieces of ceramic glass on the ground, as if maybe, if I looked hard enough, it would undo itself.

My breath was caught in my throat. Marcus looked down at the mess, then back at me. He didn't speak, but his glance was enough to send me six feet under.

“I—I'm sorry. I'll get the janitor.”

“You'll clean it yourself.” He leaned back in his chair, legs folded together.

“I will get the cleaner, Sir.”

“And I said you should get it cleaned up.”

“I'm your secretary, not the janitor.”

Something passed between his eyes— surprised— as if he'd never been questioned before.

Marcus scoffed, “You were eager enough to clean my shirt yesterday. Get on your knees.”

Something in me refused to let that be the end of it. But for now, I got down anyway, because I needed this job more than I needed to win this particular fight.

With every broken glass I picked up, under the weight of Marcus's dreadful eyes, I understood this was only the beginning of what he had in store for me.

He just watched me clean up the mess in silence, the same way he'd watched me hold a cup of scalding coffee.

I adjusted and stood straight, the broken parts cupped in my hand and another with a coffee-soaked napkin. I turned around to dispose of it and walk away.

But Marcus had other plans. “Come back.”

I turned back. My head bowed to the ground.

“Tell me, Miss Wellington — is this your idea of professionalism? Careless on your first day.”

Good for nothing. My father's voice slid in under Marcus's like they'd rehearsed the line together. Same coldness. Same rule that a mistake meant you'd failed, not just once.

“I'm sorry, sir. I would do better.” I muttered under my breath.

“Look me in the eyes when I'm talking to you.”

Slowly, I lifted my head. Those eyes held nothing resembling humanity.

“I don't tolerate carelessness. One more, and you're gone. I don't give chances.”

“Yes, sir.”My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to.

“If you are going to work here, you have to follow my rules, especially if you're going to survive being my secretary.”

Those words shook something in me. To survive, not to work.

He rose from his chair and began to pace around in the space between his chair and the glass wall.

“You will arrive at work by 6 a.m. sharp every morning. Next, my office. Clean it. Every surface, every corner. If I see a smudge on the glass or a speck of dust on my desk, you are gone!”

6 a.m. I barely made it out by 7 a.m.

Marcus began to walk towards me slowly; his eyes kept me grounded. “Memorise my calendar—”

He circled behind me. I kept my eyes forward, spine straight, refusing to turn and give him the satisfaction of watching me.

“Every meeting, every name, none must be left. You will answer my calls before the second ring. When I come in the morning, the first thing you must hand to me is coffee; black—”

His fingers found the ends of my hair. I went still; he lifted my hair, sweeping it from where it lay over my shoulder to the other side of my neck.

“Strong and plain.”

I gasped softly. His breath brushed against my neck— cold, mixed with the conditioned air. My pulse quickened, and I hated that I couldn't tell anymore whether it was fear or something with a different name entirely.

“Ok, sir,” I replied because what else could I do?

“You may leave,” Marcus said as he stepped back in line, out of my territory.

I made it into the hall before the tension finally broke in my chest. Back at my desk, I collapsed into my chair and reached for my diary with hands that hadn't fully stopped shaking.

Day One: The man from yesterday is my boss. Yesterday it was his shirt. Today it was his floor. He has my father's exact rule — one mistake, and you're worthless — except this one signs my paycheck. I don't know yet if that makes it better or so much worse.

I closed the diary and pressed my palms flat against the desk, willing my hands to stop shaking.

Other employees kept looking at me.

“They never last. And this is just her first day.” One of the employees whispered to another, but I overheard their conversation.

Buzz.

The intercom buzzed.

Sending a bigger shiver down my spine. It hadn't even been up to five minutes since he dismissed me.

“Yes, sir?”

“Send in the file given to you this morning.”

The line ended.

An actual job. Not another summons for humiliation.

I found the folder and carried it in, setting it carefully on the corner of his desk this time, both hands, no risk of a repeat performance.

He didn't spare me a glance. I turned around quickly to return to my desk before he remembered another of his rules.

“Any relation with Tom Wellington?”

I nearly fell off my heels, but I caught hold of myself just in time. I looked at Marcus from over my shoulder— not fully, but just enough that I could see he was awaiting a reply.

“Why do you ask?” My voice came out steady.

“No reason.” He was already looking back at his screen, like he hadn't just said something that had turned my blood to ice water. “Name came up. Thought it might be a relative—”

“No,” I replied too quickly. “Doesn't ring a bell.”

“Okay, Miss Wellington. Just remember, my eyes are on you.”

I swallowed hard and left his office. I didn’t know how I made it out of that office without my face giving me away.

I sat at my desk, but the rest of me stayed frozen somewhere behind his door. No reason. Name came up. Nobody in New York had any reason to know that name. Nobody except whoever had been watching me since the moment I stepped off that bus.

Ding.

A new notification appeared on my phone.

Unknown: I know who your father really is. Come alone. The Lindgren, 8pm. Ask for the reservation under Wellington.

Underneath it, a second message—a photo.

My breath caught short somewhere in my chest. It was a picture of me about five or six years old. My mother stood beside me in front of a building I hadn't seen before in Boston. A version of my own childhood I had absolutely no memory of living.