The Coffee Attack.

Aurum Heights woke up like it did every morning—loudly, dramatically, and far too early for most of its exhausted residents. The city was a glittering composition of ambition and caffeine: polished skyscrapers touched the clouds, neon signs blinked even in daylight, and the smell of roasted coffee beans drifted through the streets like a universal survival mechanism.

People rushed through crosswalks in half-sprints. Electric cars hummed past like sharp notes in a symphony. Delivery drones zipped overhead, occasionally bumping into each other in what looked like robotic road rage.

And somewhere in the middle of all this chaos, inside the 60th floor of the famous Arden Corporation, a man stepped out of the elevator—a man who was widely known for three things:

His infuriatingly perfect face.

His terrifyingly efficient work habits.

His pathological need for punctuality.

This man was Adrian Vale.

Every woman in the building pretended not to stare at him. Every man in the building pretended they weren't jealous of him. Adrian was the kind of handsome that made people subconsciously sit up straighter; tall, lean, effortlessly elegant in a suit, with a jawline that looked like it had been carved by a vengeful sculptor trying to show off.

But this morning, the universe decided to humble him.

Because Adrian Vale—the man who arrived every day at exactly 6:55 AM—was late.

By three minutes.

He could already feel his heart rate rising at the thought. Three minutes was practically a crime to him. His father used to say: A late man is an unreliable man. And Adrian had never been unreliable a day in his life.

He strode down the hallway, adjusting his tie with that signature calmness people mistook for confidence. In reality, he was listing the 27 things that could go wrong because of this delay. A meeting with a new partner. A presentation to finalize. Staff to check on. Emails to respond to. A company to run.

So when fate decided to attack, Adrian Vale was completely unprepared.

There was a warning. Technically.

He heard the sound of rapid heels clicking before he saw her—a rhythmic, powerful sound like the confident march of someone who wasn’t late but simply made the world wait for her.

Adrian turned—

And that was when it happened.

A blur of motion streaked around the corner.

A woman.

A gorgeous, impeccably dressed woman.

And in her hand?

A large, ice-cold caramel latte.

Time slowed.

Adrian could swear he saw a droplet of caramel spinning in midair like a golden tear.

SPLASH.

The coffee exploded across his chest like a caffeinated bomb.

The world froze.

The intern at the end of the hallway—the only witness—ducked behind a potted plant because she knew better than to get involved in whatever this was.

Adrian stared down at his suit, drenched in sticky, sugary coffee. He blinked once. Twice. His brain was still buffering.

The woman gasped dramatically. “Oh no—my coffee!”

Adrian looked up slowly. “…Your coffee?”

She didn’t even look embarrassed. Her eyes widened, but instead of guilt or apology, he saw pure outrage. At him.

“Yes!” she snapped. “That was a limited-edition caramel roast. Do you know how long the line is for this? I waited twelve minutes!”

“Twelve… minutes,” Adrian repeated, as if trying to translate the language of a different species.

She flicked her hair back—a striking cascade of dark, glossy waves. She was stunning. Intimidating. Every inch of her screamed wealth, power, and the kind of confidence that could make grown men rethink their career choices.

Her face could’ve graced billboards. Her posture could’ve intimidated royalty. And her glare?

Deadly.

Right now, she was looking at him as if he were the one who ruined her morning.

Adrian finally snapped out of his shock. “You ran into me.”

She scoffed. Actually scoffed. “I did not run into you. You were blocking the hallway.”

“This is the hallway. I was walking.”

“Well, maybe don’t walk where someone is obviously sprinting with hot priorities.”

“Hot—?” He looked down at the iced drink soaking his $3,000 suit. “It’s cold.”

“It’s precious,” she corrected sharply.

Adrian inhaled slowly, fighting the urge to count backwards from 100.

He took a good, long look at her.

She was tall, wearing red heels that clicked like they were commanding the ground beneath them. Her tailored blazer highlighted a figure that screamed power and elegance. Her eyes—sharp, warm brown with flecks of gold—held a fire he wasn’t used to seeing directed at him.

People usually trembled when Adrian looked at them. This woman looked like she wanted to fight him in the parking lot.

“Who,” he demanded, “are you?”

She smirked. It was the smirk of someone who had never lost an argument in her life.

“Seraphina Knight.”

The name hit him like another splash of cold coffee.

Knight.

As in Knight Industries.

As in the empire that dominated fashion, design, and luxury goods.

As in the company Adrian was meant to meet today.

She extended a manicured hand—ironically polite for someone whose coffee had just executed a full attack on him.

“Owner of Knight Industries,” she said. “And starting today, your company’s new partner.”

Adrian didn’t take her hand. He was still frozen. Brain fried. Dignity dripping off him like the latte on his suit.

Seraphina looked him up and down, unimpressed. “You’re Adrian Vale, I assume?”

Adrian managed a stiff nod.

“Huh.” She raised an eyebrow. “I expected someone taller.”

He choked. Actually choked.

“I’m six-three.”

“Six-three is tall for normal people,” she said dismissively. “But billionaires should be at least six-four. It’s basic math.”

“That’s not math.”

“It is to me.”

He stared at her. She stared back. The air in the hallway crackled.

Seraphina clicked her tongue. “Well, since you took my coffee hostage, I’ll forgive your… questionable walking skills.”

“I took—? It spilled on me!”

“Yes, which means I lost it,” she sighed dramatically. “A tragedy. Truly.”

Adrian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you ever apologize?”

“For what?”

“For spilling your drink on me.”

She blinked. “Why would I? You have a spare suit. I don’t have a spare coffee.”

He actually had to stop himself from laughing—not because it was funny, but because it was so insanely illogical that his brain was glitching.

Adrian Vale did not glitch.

Ever.

Seraphina seemed delighted by his suffering.

“Well,” she said, giving him a sweeping look, “at least now I know you’re not perfect.”

“I wasn’t trying to be perfect.”

“Oh darling,” she said with a smirk, “you don’t have to try.”

He hated how his heart skipped a beat at that.

Seraphina’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen. “Meeting in ten minutes. Try not to be late again.”

He stiffened. “I wasn’t—”

“Oh please,” she cut him off, sashaying toward the conference room, “you were late enough to collide with me and kill my coffee. That’s late in my book.”

He stared after her.

That woman… was trouble.

Not the cute, manageable kind.

The catastrophic, city-leveling kind.

And he was supposed to work with her?

Adrian ran a hand through his hair, wincing at the sticky caramel now in it.

This partnership was going to be—

No, his entire life was going to be—

A disaster.

A very beautiful disaster.

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