Yes Daddy

Collision Course

By the end of week one, I decided Ethan Ward might be the most irritating man I’d ever met. And that’s saying something I once worked under a manager who thought Comic Sans was a “bold branding choice.”

Ethan wasn’t loud, wasn’t rude. No, he was worse. Calm. Composed. Smug in that way only men who’ve never been told no can manage. He walked around like the building was his birthright confident, strategic, and infuriatingly unreadable.

Everyone adored him already. Of course they did. He was polite, professional, and spoke in that low, steady voice that made even the copier seem interested.

Me? I wasn’t buying it.

“Morning, Miss Collins,” he said, the next time I walked into the boardroom. His tie was off by one button deliberate, I was sure.

“Morning, Mr. Ward,” I said, my voice dipped in sugar and sarcasm. “How’s the adjustment? Has corporate life in this humble branch met your high New York standards?”

He gave me a slow smile. “Still waiting to be impressed.”

“Give it time,” I said sweetly. “Mediocrity can sneak up on you when you least expect it.”

That earned me a raised brow. “And which side of that mediocrity line do you think you’re on?”

“The one drawing it,” I said, dropping my files onto the table.

He laughed, quietly, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’ve got spirit.”

“Spirit gets things done,” I replied. “Polite arrogance just slows them down.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged. The kind of silence that makes the air feel too tight, too aware.

We started the meeting, surrounded by team members who looked like they’d pay money to watch us argue. Every suggestion I made, Ethan countered not rudely, but strategically.

I said “We should target younger audiences.”

He said “Data shows our older demographic pays more.”

I said “We can take creative risks.”

He said “Risks are for people with backup plans.”

I smiled the whole time, the kind that could slice paper. “You know, Mr. Ward, you’re really good at finding flaws in perfectly good ideas.”

“And you,” he said without missing a beat, “are really good at making chaos sound poetic.”

Our eyes met challenge accepted.

By the time the meeting ended, everyone else had mentally backed away like spectators leaving a boxing ring. I gathered my notes calmly while he lingered, watching.

“Do you ever not argue?” he asked.

“Only when I’m wrong,” I said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“And how often does that happen?”

“Wouldn’t know,” I said. “Still waiting for the first time.”

He chuckled, that annoyingly quiet kind again. “You really don’t like me, do you?”

I gave him a mock smile. “Oh, don’t flatter yourself. I don’t like anyone who assumes they’re the smartest person in the room.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “you’re acting like you are.”

“Because I am.”

We stared at each other his jaw tight, my chin tilted up, neither willing to blink first.

Then, with the most infuriating calm, he said, “This is going to be fun.”

And walked out.

I hated that he was right.

(Ethan)

Ava Collins has an ego the size of the building and somehow, it’s still smaller than her talent.

She’s bold, sharp, and absolutely incapable of letting anything slide. Every meeting turns into a match her words laced with challenge, her smirk daring me to bite.

And I do. Every time.

I told myself she’d be a problem, but she’s the kind of problem you don’t delegate you confront. Head-on.

The way she stares me down, like she’s daring me to underestimate her… she reminds me of myself a few years ago. Ruthless. Hungry. Dangerous.

I catch her later that day by the espresso machine, typing one-handed on her phone.

“Don’t tell me you’re working through lunch,” I say, crossing my arms.

She doesn’t even look up. “Don’t tell me you’re monitoring my schedule.”

“I monitor productivity.”

“Well,” she says, pressing the espresso button, “productivity improves when certain people stop hovering.”

“That so?”

She looks up then, her golden hair catching the light like she planned it. “That’s so.”

There’s a beat.

“You really don’t like me,” I say.

“I don’t dislike you,” she replies. “I just find you… educational.”

“Educational?”

“Yeah. You’re like a masterclass in overconfidence.”

I laugh genuinely this time. “You realize that sounded like a compliment?”

“Don’t get used to it,” she says, taking her cup and brushing past me.

And just like that, she’s gone.

I sip my coffee and watch her walk away not because I want to, but because she makes people look. It’s infuriating.

She’s infuriating.

And I have a feeling this is only the beginning.

(Ava)

By the time Friday hits, the whole office knows we can’t stand each other and honestly, I like it that way. There’s a strange kind of thrill in outsmarting him, in seeing that flicker of irritation in his perfect poker face.

He pushes, I push harder. He corrects, I counter.

It’s exhausting.

It’s addictive.

And for the first time in a long time, work feels like a game again.

A very dangerous, very satisfying game.