The glass doors of the Sterling Building didn't just open; they seemed to part in fear as scott stones strode through the lobby. At 6'3" in a charcoal suit that cost more than my college tuition, he was the definition of "untouchable." He didn't look at the security guards who bowed their heads, and he certainly didn't look at me—the woman currently balancing three trays of artisanal espresso and a stack of quarterly reports.
"You're four minutes late," he said, his voice like velvet wrapped around a blade. He didn't stop walking. He didn't even glance back to see if I was keeping up with his predatory pace toward the private elevator.
"The elevator was serviced this morning, Mr. Stones. I had to take the stairs," I panted, my heels clicking furiously against the marble.
He stopped abruptly, turning on his heel. His eyes, cold and the color of a winter sea, swept over me with an expression that wasn't just bored—it was dismissive. "Then you should have run faster. My time is worth ten thousand dollars a minute, Edba. Try not to waste another penny of it."
As the elevator doors slid shut, leaving me standing in his expensive wake, I felt the familiar heat of a comeback dying on my tongue. He was arrogant, he was impossible, and he was the most powerful man in the city. But as I caught my reflection in the polished gold of the elevator door…..
The atmosphere on the 60th floor of Stone Industries didn't just feel professional; it felt pressurized, like being trapped inside a vacuum where the only oxygen was Scott Stone's approval.
Edna Rivers clutched the cardboard carrier of coffees so tightly her knuckles were white. She had been at the firm for exactly three weeks, and in that time, she had learned three things: Scott Stone never drank cream, he never waited for anyone, and he never, ever forgave a mistake.
"Out of the way, Edna! He's in a mood," Marcus, the senior analyst, hissed as he scurried past her with a stack of files.
Edna took a deep breath, smoothing her thrift-store blazer. She wasn't a "lowly" girl in her own mind—she was a hard worker with a mountain of student debt—but in this building of glass and steel, she felt like a ghost in a palace.
She approached the heavy oak doors of the boardroom. Through the glass, she saw him. Scott Stone was standing at the head of the table, his back to the door. Even from behind, his presence was suffocating. His shoulders were broad, his suit tailored to a perfection that made him look less like a man and more like a statue carved from granite.
"I don't care about the logistics!" Scott's voice boomed, vibrating through the wood. "I care about results. If the merger fails, you're all replaceable. Am I clear?"
A chorus of terrified "Yes, Mr. Stone" echoed back.
Edna's hands shook. Just walk in, set the coffee down, and leave, she told herself.
She pushed the door open. The room was silent, the air thick with the scent of expensive cologne and anxiety. She moved toward the side table, her eyes focused on her feet. But then, it happened.
One of the junior executives, eager to show Scott a graph on his tablet, jumped up from his seat just as Edna passed. His elbow clipped her shoulder.
Time seemed to slow down. The carrier tipped. The lids, poorly secured by a rushed barista, popped off like champagne corks.
A quart of scalding, pitch-black Americano—Scott's specific, extra-hot blend—soared through the air. It didn't hit the floor. It didn't hit the table.
It landed squarely across the chest of Scott Stone's crisp, white Egyptian cotton shirt.
The sound of the splash was followed by a silence so profound it felt like the building had stopped breathing. Edna stood frozen, her empty hands still shaped around a ghost carrier.
Scott didn't scream. He didn't jump. He slowly looked down at his chest, where the dark liquid was soaking through his shirt and dripping onto his handmade Italian leather shoes. Then, he slowly—terrifyingly slowly—looked up.
His eyes were like flint. "Who?" he whispered. The quietness of his voice was worse than a shout.
"I... I'm so sorry, Mr. Stone," Edna stammered, her voice cracking. She grabbed a handful of napkins from her pocket, rushing forward without thinking. "It was an accident, someone bumped me, let me—"
She reached out to dab at his chest, her fingers trembling. The moment her hand touched his shirt, he flinched as if she were a plague. He grabbed her wrist, his grip like a vice. His skin was hot—partly from the coffee, partly from a rage that seemed to radiate off him in waves.
"Do not touch me," he hissed.
The entire boardroom was staring. Edna felt the heat of a hundred suns rushing to her face. "I was just trying to help—"
"Help?" Scott stepped into her personal space, forcing her to look up at him. He was so close she could see the golden flecks of anger in his dark irises. "You've just ruined a four-thousand-dollar shirt and interrupted a fifty-million-dollar meeting. Do you have any idea who you are?"
"I'm Edna Rivers," she said, a spark of sudden, desperate defiance flickering in her chest. "And I'm a human being who made a mistake."
The room gasped. No one spoke to Scott Stone like that.
Scott's jaw tightened. He released her wrist with a flick of his hand, as if discarding trash. "You are an inconvenience, Miss Rivers. You are a distraction I don't have time for. Clean this mess up—the floor, not me—and then find the HR manager. I want you off this floor by noon."
"You're firing me for a cup of coffee?" Edna's eyes stung with tears she refused to let fall.
Scott leaned down, his face inches from hers, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "I'm firing you because you're clumsy, you're loud, and you clearly don't belong in my world. Now, get out of my sight before I decide to make sure you never work in this city again."
Edna looked at him—really looked at him. Beneath the wealth and the suit, she saw a man who was utterly alone in his arrogance. She didn't sob. She didn't beg. She set the remaining napkins on the table, straightened her back, and looked him dead in the eye.
"The coffee might wash out, Mr. Stone," she said quietly, loud enough for the whole room to hear. "But being a jerk is permanent."
She turned and walked out, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She expected to feel defeated, but as she reached the elevator, all she felt was a strange, burning heat.
Back in the boardroom, Scott Stone stood paralyzed. No one had ever looked at him with that much pity. He looked at the napkins she had left behind, his heart doing a strange, uncomfortable thud.
He hated her. He absolutely hated her. So why couldn't he stop thinking about the way her eyes had flashed when she told him off?