Trapped with Mr. Blackwell

If hell had an office address, it would be Lucas Blackwell’s corner suite. I shoved another folder onto his desk with the kind of force that made the pens rattle. He didn’t even look up from his laptop. He never did. His eyes stayed glued to the glowing screen, his jaw locked in that perfect, infuriating line that probably made women melt. Not me. I wasn’t one of the women who whispered about him in the breakroom. I knew better. “Wrong font,” he said flatly, tapping the report without glancing at me. My jaw tightened. “It’s Times New Roman. Exactly what you asked for.” “I said Times New Roman, size twelve. You used eleven.” I blinked. “Are you serious?” He finally raised his gaze, and for one dangerous second, I wished he hadn’t. Lucas Blackwell’s eyes were the exact shade of winter — cold, sharp, a color that froze you in place. His entire face was carved perfection: expensive cheekbones, perfectly pressed suit, the kind of control that made rooms go silent when he entered. And I hated every single thing about him. “Do it again,” he said smoothly, already dismissing me with the flick of his hand. “Of course, Mr. Blackwell,” I said, my voice dripping venom. “God forbid the company collapses under the weight of a twelve-point font.” For a fraction of a second, I swore I saw the corner of his mouth twitch almost a smirk — before his expression iced over again. I turned on my heel, my heels clicking against the marble floor, and stalked out of his office. My entire body hummed with irritation, like I’d swallowed fire. He wasn’t just cold. He was impossible. The worst part? He knew exactly how good he looked when he was being impossible. “Charlotte,” his deep voice called after me just as I reached the door. I froze, turned halfway, and met his gaze. “Coffee,” he said simply, like I was his personal barista instead of his assistant who ran three departments under his name. I wanted to throw the stapler at him. Instead, I smiled sweetly — the fakest, most poisonous smile I owned. “One coffee. Size twelve.” This time, I caught it: the ghost of a smirk that shouldn’t have been there. He was enjoying this. He enjoyed making me hate him. Fine. I could play this game. As I marched back to my desk, muttering curses under my breath, I didn’t notice the elegant figure gliding past the office doors — Lucas’s mother. She paused, watching me with an unreadable expression. Then she smiled. And that smile said one thing very clearly: she had plans. Plans that, unfortunately, involved me.