The bus ride back to her cramped apartment felt longer than usual. Edna leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of amber and white. Her heart was still performing a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She had survived a day with Scott Stone—barely—but the real battle was just beginning.
When she pushed open the door to the apartment she shared with her best friend, the smell of burnt toast and cheap lavender incense greeted her.
"You're late! I was about to call the hospitals or the morgue," Mary Storm yelled from the kitchen, popping her head out. Mary was a whirlwind of energy with bright dyed-pink hair and a personality that could light up a blackout.
Edna collapsed onto their sagging velvet sofa, kicking off her heels. "I didn't die, Mary. But I think I might have started a war."
Mary dropped a plate of toast and sat cross-legged on the floor. "Start from the beginning. Did the 'Ice King' finally crack?"
Edna spent the next hour recounting every agonizing detail—the spilled coffee, the ruined four-thousand-dollar shirt, the terrifying grip on her wrist, and the way he looked at her when she called him a jerk.
"You called Scott Stone a jerk? To his face?" Mary's eyes were wide as saucers. "Edna, you're either the bravest person I know or you have a death wish. That man has destroyed entire companies for less!"
"I couldn't help it," Edna groaned, burying her face in a pillow. "He's so arrogant, Mary. He thinks the world is his personal chessboard and I'm just a pawn he can kick off the table. But then... when he looked at me in the hallway... it wasn't just anger. It was like he was seeing me for the first time."
Mary smirked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh, he saw you alright. Usually, people tremble when he barks. You barked back. Men like that? They don't know what to do with 'no.' Just be careful, Ed. Don't let the 'Desire' part of the story start before you get your paycheck."
Meanwhile, across town at The Gilded Cask, the atmosphere was much different. The bar was dim, smelling of aged bourbon and leather. Scott Stone sat in a private corner booth, staring into a glass of neat Scotch as if it held the answers to the universe.
"You've been staring at that ice cube for ten minutes, Scott. It's not going to apologize to you," a voice joked.
Paul Clad, Scott's oldest friend and the only person who dared to laugh at him, slid into the opposite seat. Paul was a venture capitalist with a relaxed smile that contrasted Scott's permanent scowl.
"A girl spilled coffee on me today," Scott said, his voice low.
Paul snorted. "So? Fire her. Buy a new shirt. Buy the coffee shop. Why are you acting like someone burned down your penthouse?"
"I can't fire her. Legal loophole," Scott growled, taking a sharp sip of his drink. "But that's not the point. The point is... she looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was just some... 'jerk' with a bank account."
Paul leaned back, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Wait a minute. Is this the scholarship girl? The one with the big eyes and the sharp tongue? The one you've complained about three times in the last twenty minutes?"
"I am not complaining," Scott snapped. "I am analyzing a threat to my office productivity."
Paul burst out laughing, hitting the table with his palm. "A threat? Scott, you're obsessed! I've known you since we were in prep school. You don't get this worked up over 'threats.' You get this worked up over women who get under your skin."
"Don't be ridiculous," Scott hissed. "She's an employee. A lowly, clumsy, irritating employee."
"And yet," Paul leaned in, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper, "here you are, in our favorite bar, talking about her instead of the fifty-million-dollar merger. Admit it, Scott. For the first time in your life, you've met a woman you can't buy or bully. You're not angry because of the coffee. You're angry because you're attracted to her."
Scott's glass paused halfway to his lips. "I am not attracted to her."
"The lady doth protest too much," Paul quoted with a wink. "Careful, buddy. Falling in love with the 'lowly girl' is a classic trope for a reason. It usually starts with a spilled drink and ends with a diamond ring."
Scott slammed his glass down, the Scotch splashing over the rim. "That will never happen. She is an inconvenience I have to tolerate for eighty-two days. Nothing more."
"Eighty-two days," Paul mused, checking his watch. "I give it three weeks before you're buying her flowers to apologize for being a 'jerk.'"
Scott glared at his friend, but deep down, in a place he refused to acknowledge, his heart gave a traitorous thud at the memory of Edna's defiant eye.