Emma Hart jolted awake to the aggressive buzzing of her phone vibrating against the nightstand. Her hand shot out from under the covers, fumbling blindly until her fingers wrapped around the device. She cracked one eye open, squinting at the too-bright screen.
11:00 AM.
"No, no, no, no, NO!"
She launched herself out of bed so fast the blankets tangled around her legs, nearly sending her crashing to the floor. Her first day. Her FIRST day at Sterling Industries as Executive Assistant to the CEO, and she was two hours late. How could this happen? After weeks of preparation, after buying a new wardrobe, after practicing her introduction in the mirror—she'd slept through every single alarm.
The previous semester had been brutal. Final exams for her Bachelor's in Business Management, late-night study sessions fueled by energy drinks and desperation, and the constant anxiety of job applications had left her completely drained. Last night, she'd collapsed into bed at 8 PM, telling herself she'd just rest her eyes for an hour.
That was fifteen hours ago.
Emma sprinted to the bathroom, her heart hammering against her ribcage. A cold shower shocked her system awake, goosebumps erupting across her skin as icy water cascaded over her. She didn't have time for her usual morning routine—no meditation, no breakfast, no carefully planned outfit selection. This was survival mode.
Wrapped in a towel, she attacked her makeup bag with the precision of a surgeon under time pressure. Foundation blended in record time, a sweep of bronzer, mascara applied with shaking hands, and a touch of rose-tinted lip gloss. She barely looked at her reflection, too panicked to notice the way her high cheekbones caught the light, or how her naturally long lashes framed her striking hunter eyes—eyes that shifted between honey-brown and amber depending on the lighting.
Her closet doors flew open. What does one wear to grovel for forgiveness on their first day? Her hand landed on her favorite maroon top—a fitted, elegant piece with a subtle V-neck that she'd been saving for a confidence boost. She paired it with black tailored pants and her only pair of professional heels. Coffee. She needed coffee, or she'd never survive this disaster of a morning.
The Manhattan streets buzzed with midday energy as Emma power-walked toward the nearest Tim Hortons, her heels clicking against the pavement in an urgent rhythm. She was aware of the stares—there were always stares—but today she attributed it entirely to her makeup. She had no idea that heads turned because of the way her long, wavy hair caught the sunlight like strands of silk, or how her athletic hourglass figure moved with an unconscious grace that stopped people in their tracks.
A construction worker nearly walked into a pole. A businessman in a gray suit did a double-take that almost caused him to miss his Uber. Emma noticed none of it, too focused on calculating how badly this would impact her career before it even started.
Please don't let Mr. Sterling fire me before lunch, she prayed silently.
The Tim Hortons was mercifully quiet—a calm oasis in the chaos of her morning. The rich aroma of coffee beans and fresh pastries enveloped her as she stepped inside. Emma rushed to the counter, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush.
"Hi! I'm in a major hurry. Can I please get a large Americano? Extra shot?"
The cashier, a young woman with kind eyes and a name tag reading "Sarah," smiled sympathetically. "Rough morning?"
"You have no idea," Emma groaned. "First day at a new job and I'm catastrophically late."
"Yikes. Okay, one large Americano with an extra shot coming right up. That'll be eleven dollars. Cash or card?"
Emma fumbled through her leather handbag, her fingers finally closing around her credit card. "Card, please. Thank you so much."
Transaction complete, she moved to the waiting area by the window, her leg bouncing anxiously as she watched Sarah work the espresso machine. The rich, dark liquid poured into the cup, steam rising in delicate spirals. Emma checked her phone. 11:17 AM. Sterling Industries was a ten-minute walk. If she ran—
"Ms. Emma! Order fifty-five!"
She lunged for the counter, her fingers wrapping around the blessed warmth of the coffee cup. Finally, something going right. She spun on her heel, already mentally rehearsing her apology speech, when her body collided with what felt like a brick wall.
The Americano exploded between them.
Hot liquid soaked through fabric, the dark stain spreading across expensive material like ink in water. Emma's jaw dropped as she watched her eleven-dollar salvation drip onto the pristine floor.
"Are you KIDDING me?!" The words erupted before she could stop them. "Watch where you're going!"
Her eyes traveled upward—and up, and up. The man she'd crashed into stood at least six feet tall, his presence commanding the entire space around him. But it was his face that stopped her mid-rant.
He was... devastatingly beautiful. Sharp, sculpted features that looked hand-carved by an artist obsessed with perfection. High cheekbones that could cut glass. A straight, aristocratic nose. A defined jawline covered by a neatly trimmed box beard. Rose-brown lips set in a firm line of displeasure. His dark hair fell to his collarbone in perfectly tousled waves that probably cost more to maintain than her monthly rent.
But his eyes—God, his eyes were something else entirely. Hunter eyes, intense and predatory, framed by thick dark lashes. They were a shade of deep brown that shifted to amber in the streaming sunlight from the window, like whiskey held up to flame. Those eyes were currently fixed on her with an expression of cold fury that sent ice down her spine.
He wore a maroon Henley that probably cost more than her entire outfit, now completely ruined. His forearms, visible where he'd rolled up his sleeves, were corded with lean muscle and traced with veins that suggested he didn't spend all his time behind a desk. Everything about him screamed wealth, power, and barely contained irritation.
"I should watch where I'm going?" His voice was deep, smooth, and absolutely glacial. "You ran into me."
Emma's mouth opened to argue, but something about the way he looked at her—like she was an irritating insect that had dared to land on his designer clothes—made her blood boil.
"Maybe if you weren't standing in the middle of the pickup area like you own the place—"
"I do own it."
"What?"
His eyes narrowed, and Emma realized that every single person in the coffee shop had gone silent. They were all staring. At him. With expressions ranging from awe to... was that fear?
"Nothing." He pulled his phone from his pocket with controlled precision. "Sarah, send the cleaning bill to my office." He didn't raise his voice, but the barista immediately called out, "Yes, Mr. Sterling!"
The world tilted on its axis.
Sterling.
Mr. Sterling.
No.
Emma's heart stopped beating. Alexander Sterling. THE Alexander Sterling. CEO of Sterling Industries. Tech mogul. Forbes 30 Under 30. The man who'd built a billion-dollar empire before his thirty-second birthday. The man whose office she was supposed to be sitting outside of right now, taking calls and managing schedules.
The man whose designer shirt she'd just ruined while calling him an idiot.
His eyes locked onto hers, and in that moment, Emma saw something flicker behind the cold facade—recognition, maybe, or calculation. The amber in his irises seemed to glow in the shifting light, and she felt her knees go weak for reasons that had nothing to do with fear.
"You should be more careful," he said quietly, his voice carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood. "The city can be unforgiving to people who don't pay attention."
Then he walked past her, the scent of expensive cologne and coffee trailing in his wake, leaving Emma frozen in place with her empty hands and racing heart.
She had exactly twenty-three minutes to get to Sterling Industries.
Where her new boss—the man she'd just assaulted with caffeine—would be waiting.
This is fine, she thought hysterically.
Everything is completely fine.
It was, without question, the worst first day in the history of first days.