Paul stormed into Danica's office like a one-man riot.
His face was flushed with the kind of rage usually reserved for reality show eliminations or someone eating the last doughnut in the break room. He was so laser-focused on his target, he didn't even noticed the audience already present in the room: Alfred, Sean, and Danica.
Nope. Paul had tunnel vision. All he could see was Mr. Lee—his so-called best friend—standing there like a deer in loafers, right in the middle of room.
He grabbed him from behind in what could generously be described as a chokehold and less generously as grounds for HR intervention.
"What the hell did you say, huh?" Paul growled, voice somewhere between a hiss and a coffee grinder.
Mr. Lee let out a strangled yelp, wriggling like a worm on a fishhook. "Get off me, you idiot!" he barked, elbowing Paul in the ribs like they were two overgrown toddlers fighting over a toy. "Have you lost your damn mind?"
"Where were you? We waited! Everyone waited!" Mr. Lee's voice climbed a few octaves as he yanked himself free, smoothing his shirt as if it had been personally offended.
Paul blinked, confused, still brimming with righteous indignation.
Shouldn't I be the one screaming here? he thought, internally drafting an angry monologue and maybe a few passive-aggressive emails.
But any further theatrics were cut short by a new voice.
"Oh, is this a playdate or a professional meltdown? Should I get popcorn?"
Paul immediately realized the voice and he snapped in the direction of voice only to find Danica leaning against her desk like a queen surveying the peasants—and she was holding a knife. An actual, real-life knife. Not metaphorical, not plastic, not one of those fancy cheese ones. A proper, stainless-steel, could-cut-through-bone blade.
"Is this an amusement park?" she asked sweetly, her sarcasm so thick you could spread it on toast. Her eyes sparkled in that I might kill you, but I'll look fabulous doing it kind of way.
Paul suddenly became acutely aware that he wasn't alone. He straightened up like a kid caught drawing on the walls, his eyes darting around the room. Danica's gaze locked on him—and he did the most pathetic thing imaginable.
[GULP]
Danica glided toward him, holding the knife in one hand while the other casually traced its edge with her fingertip.
"You're my manager, Paul," she said, voice low and throaty, like silk with a serrated edge. "But even managers have limits. You left the company today—without telling me. Without asking. Without so much as a smoke signal."
Paul tried to shrink into himself, which was difficult given he was six feet of panicking man-child.
"I sat in the conference room like a freaking idiot while you were—what? Frolicking in a meadow somewhere? Doing interpretive dance? It was humiliating."
Danica was now toe-to-toe with him. Her perfume—expensive, intimidating, like something called Regret by Chanel—swirled around him.
She leaned in. Her lips barely moved as she gritted through her teeth, "I am the BOSS. I make the rules. And rule number one?"
She grabbed his tie and yanked it hard enough to nearly decapitate him. "NEVER disappoint your boss."
Paul gasped like a fish freshly plucked from water. His hands scrabbled at her grip.
"Rule number one! You broke rule number one! Are you dense, or just addicted to failure?" Her voice rose to a crescendo, echoing off the sterile office walls like a war cry in a marble cathedral.
Mr. Lee and Sean had turned a tragic shade of pale—the kind that screamed: We're next.
"I—I'm sorry!" Paul choked out. He meant it. He really did. In that moment, he would've confessed to murder or TikTok dancing if it meant getting out of her grip.
Danica's eyes flared wide. "SORRY? Oh, you're sorry? That's cute." Her grip tightened. "Do you know what I hate more than unpaid invoices and limp handshakes? Disappointment."
She flung his tie away as if it had personally accused her ancestors. Paul stumbled backward, gasping, one hand still clutching his bruised ego.
Danica raised the knife.
"You've disappointed me, Paul. And in this company? That's the kiss of death." She leaned in, her voice turning into a poisonous whisper. "Adieu."
She raised the knife, ready to stab—
But before the blade could decide whether this was a termination letter or a homicide, her hand froze midair.
The grip was solid but gentle at the edge. It felt familiar.
She looked back.
And it was Alfred.
He didn't flinch. His eyes— chocolate brown, full of warmth—locked with hers, dark with rage. His other hand hovered as if unsure where to land: her shoulder? Her waist? Her heart?
"Let go," she hissed in a voice low, eyes wild with the chaos that danced inside her.
But Alfred didn't release her. His touch was unyielding, yet not harsh—just enough to tether her to reality, just enough to stop the madness threatening to consume her.
"Danica…" he uttered her name as if it was hurting to speak, soft but broken. "Don't do this."
Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Don't you dare preach to me."
His jaw clenched, and he could see it now—logic wasn't going to reach her. The woman in front of him was unraveling, a live wire sparking with rage, grief, and desperation.
Love is the only language left, he thought. If words can't touch her... maybe my heart can.
Without warning, he yanked her closer, catching her off guard. Her breath hitched as her body collided with his. She struggled—goddess, she fought him—but his arms only tightened, wrapping around her like a solid armor.
"Let go of me!" she cried, her voice cracking, breath hot against his neck.
"No," he whispered, burying his face in her hair, grounding himself in the scent of fire and vanilla that clung to her. "I'm not losing you to this."
Paul, coughing in the corner, remained forgotten as Alfred barked, "Out. Everyone. Now."
The door slammed shut, and only the two of them remained, sealed in a room thick with danger and desire.
Alfred reached past her to yank the blinds shut, sealing them in.
He leaned down again, his voice gruff but tender, "Breathe, Dan."
His hand brushed over her head, fingers combing gently through the chaos of her hair. She stiffened, but then... a shiver ran down her spine. The fury was still there—hot and volatile—but underneath it, something softer stirred. Something that made her heart pound in a different way.
She didn't move when he stepped back. Didn't breathe when he cupped her face.
"Don't," she warned, voice trembling.
But he kissed her anyway.
It wasn't gentle. It was searing, consuming—desperate. Her fists pounded against his robust chest, her nails carving against him—but the strength drained from her limbs as his mouth claimed hers like he had every right to.
The knife slipped from her fingers, a hollow clatter on the floor that neither of them heard.
She kissed him back.
It was violence and poetry. Destruction and salvation. Their mouths collided like thunder cracking open the night sky—chaotic and beautiful. He lifted her with a growl low in his throat, setting her on the edge of the table, never breaking their fevered kiss. She gasped into him, wrapping her legs around his waist no less than a siren pulling him deeper into her storm.
Time vanished.
When he finally pulled away, they were both breathless, his lips were bruised, his pupils blown wide with desire and concern.
He rested his forehead against hers, still holding her face as if she might disappear if he let go.
"Control your anger," he murmured, brushing a stray curl from her flushed cheek. "Don't let it control you."
She nodded once, eyes lowered, cheeks burning.
WHILE SOMEWHERE AWAY FROM THE DANICA'S CABIN
Mr. Lee shoved a glass of water into Paul's hand like it was a fire extinguisher and Paul was the blaze. He plopped onto the couch beside him, peering at him as if waiting for Paul to start foaming at the mouth.
"You alive?" he asked, eyebrow cocked in a way that screamed drama queen in denial.
Paul took a long, exaggerated sip of the water like he was auditioning for a role in a survival documentary, then set the glass down like it was a trophy he'd just earned for not dying.
"Oh, I was this close to becoming a romantic tragedy. Cue the violin," Paul deadpanned, pinching his fingers together. "Alfred gets the hero edit this time."
Lee's laugh was a short, shocked bark. "She practically murdered you, man. I mean, was that her version of flirting? A homicide attempt?"
Paul blinked. And then the blink turned into a stare. The kind that started humorous and slid into something sharp and uncomfortable.
"What?" Mr. Lee's voice cracked, his eyes darting away like a raccoon caught rifling through emotional trash.
"You are the problem."
"Oh, fantastic," his friend muttered. "How exactly am I the villain in your almost-death?"
"If you had just kept your mouth shut—if your big, information-vomiting mouth had taken a day off—I wouldn't have sprinted out of the office like my hair was on fire," Paul hissed. "You didn't have to tell me right then that Nina was pregnant!"
There was a beat of confused silence. And then—
"Wait. What? Hold on." Lee sat up straighter, waving his hand like he was conducting an invisible orchestra of nonsense. "You need to get your ears professionally serviced. I never said Nina. I said Danica. DANICA. With a D. You know—D for disaster, which apparently stands for today."
"Oh okay..." Paul heaved out of relief. And then the realization slowly hit him and he let out, "Oh, what! It's...who...Danica?"
"YES." His friend threw up his hands, exasperated. "You need to take off those headphones once in a while and actually listen to people. Because your selective hearing just nearly got us both killed."
Paul groaned and dropped his face into his hands. "I know. I know. But how do you even know about all this?"
"I heard Alfred whispering to Danica like he was in a bad soap opera. He told her, and I quote, 'Keep this child.'" His friend made air quotes like they personally offended him. "So, yeah. It sounds like she accidentally got knocked up and now she's panicking. I mean, yesterday he kissed her in the break room, today she's apparently hosting his spawn. What is this, The Bachelor: Apocalypse Edition?"
Paul's internal monologue was now a full-blown courtroom drama. Alfred. The charmer with the jawline of deceit and the morals of a damp sponge. Paul's thoughts spiraled. Yesterday he was kissing her like a Disney prince, and today he's planting future heartbreaks in her womb? Classic. I always knew he had 'walking red flag' energy.
His friend leaned back, arms folded, giving him a look that was equal parts pity and sarcasm. "Look. Now that she's pregnant, maybe it's time to stop chasing her like you're the lead in a YA romance novel. I'm just saying. Let it go, Elsa."
Paul huffed. His friend gave him a quick, brotherly slap on the shoulder and stood up with the kind of tired dramatic flourish usually reserved for retired stage actors.
"Come on. Let's get back to work before another one of your misheard melodramas ends in an ambulance ride."
INSIDE DANICA'S CABIN
Alfred's phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, grimaced slightly, then looked at Danica like he was about to confess he moonlighted as a hitman.
"I'll be right back," he muttered in that infuriatingly calm tone, as if they hadn't just kissed like two people with no regard for personal space or HR policies.
Once he was gone, Danica was a cocktail of adrenaline and horror—equal parts champagne bubbles and floor cleaner. Her knees still quivered with electricity, replaying the kiss they had. It was so consuming, raw and satisfying. And now, in the given moment, it felt equally embarrassing.
"Oh no…" she groaned dramatically, face-palming "Why did he kiss me like that?!" Her voice cracked as she mumbled into her palms. "And the worst part is... I reciprocated. Again! Ugh! God, take me back to five minutes ago so I can slap myself."
Dragging herself off the table like a failed gymnastics dismount, she raked her fingers through her hair, which now resembled a romantic comedy disaster montage. She made a beeline for the coffee machine, the only reliable source in her life right now.
"Aaaah…" she sighed, cradling the mug like it was whispering soothing words back. "Bitter, black, and doesn't text back. Just how I like my emotional support."
As she leaned back on the sofa and took another heavenly sip, a peculiar thought tiptoed into her brain like an uninvited relative.
Why the hell was everyone offering me parenting advice today? Did I start looking maternal? Did I wear a baby bib by accident?
KNOCK KNOCK!
Danica flinched as the abrupt knock yanked her out of the spiral.
"Yes, come in," she barked, adjusting her spine like a battle general. If it was another unsolicited advice fairy, she was going to throw her coffee at the person and that too without hesitation.
It was Nina. Danica's war face melted instantly. She stood up and hugged her like the cabin wasn't filled with emotional landmines.
"What brings you here?" Danica asked, a little too brightly.
"Well, Paul showed up at my house today. Just, you know, randomly, like a sitcom twist," Nina huffed, launching into a full tale.
Danica listened, one eyebrow arched as if it had a personality disorder. "Ohhh, so that's why he ghosted the office like Batman..."
Nina blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I almost murdered him," Danica replied breezily, polishing her sunglasses with the calculated elegance of a Bond villain. "Alfred stopped me. Tragic, really."
"You need serious help," Nina muttered, rubbing her temple.
"I am serious help," Danica grinned, slipping on her black shades like she was ready to be arrested on the cover of Vogue: Criminal Edition.
"By the way…" Nina's tone turned sinister. "Are you pregnant?"
Danica nearly dropped her coffee. "WHAT?!"
"Relax, your secret's safe with me. Except for the dozen employees who already know."
Danica gawked as if Nina had slapped her with a diaper. "I beg your pardon?! What kind of dystopian gossip carousel is this?"
"I'm just saying, people are talking," Nina shrugged.
"People are idiots!" Danica exploded. "I AM NOT PREGNANT! I haven't even had time to order groceries this week, let alone procreate!"
"Then who started the rumor?"
Danica's eyes narrowed as the world clicked into place. "Wait. Everyone was giving me unsolicited health advice as if I were a fertility goddess. I thought they were just being annoyingly optimistic!"
"Also…" Nina continued, squinting, "Paul's friend joked about me being pregnant too."
"Mr. Lee," Danica growled through clenched teeth, her tone pure cinematic vengeance. "He's a dead man walking."
MEANWHILE, IN THE OFFICE CUBICLES
Mr. Lee was doing something suspiciously productive when a trembling intern interrupted him.
"Mr. Lee? Boss is… calling you."
The man went pale. "Oh. Okay," he gulped, instantly regretting every life decision that led to this moment.
DANICA'S OFFICE!
The door creaked open and Mr. Lee slithered in, shaking as though he was entering a lion's den with a meat-scented cologne.
"Mr. Lee," Danica said with a voice that could sharpen knives.
She peeled off her sunglasses with a flourish that deserved a slow clap. Her eyes narrowed.
"Let's be straightforward."
Mr. Lee's soul evacuated his body. He dropped his gaze to the classic floor like it contained all the answers.
"Was it you who started the rumor about my alleged immaculate conception?" she asked sweetly. Too sweetly.
Silence. He said nothing.
"Come on," she snapped. "I won't kill you. Yet."
She circled him like a hawk in Prada, hands behind her back.
"There are only two reasons people go mute," she mused aloud. "Guilt, or extreme reverence. Guess which one applies to you?"
Then, in one sudden, balletic motion, she grabbed his tie and yanked it.
Mr. Lee made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a gasp. "Y-Yes!" he coughed.
She released him, rolling her eyes as he wheezed and adjusted the tie.
"Fascinating," she said, voice dripping with faux wonder. "You've worked here for years without a single rumor baby. And now, this? Are you planning a dramatic exit?"
"N-Never! I would never betray you, boss! Not even in my dreams!"
Danica tilted her head, smirking. "Dreams can be dangerous."
Mr. Lee flinched like she'd read his browser history.
"I overheard Mr. Alfred saying 'Keep the child'," he blurted. "I thought—"
Danica groaned so hard it shook the coffee table. "You blabbering moron! He was talking about a homeless kid his car nearly hit! He took the child to an orphanage. That was the 'keep.' Not me. Not my uterus."
"Oh…" Mr. Lee looked like a dog who just realized it peed on an electric fence. "I misunderstood."
Danica crossed her arms, a picture of icy command. "Fix it. Undo your mistake. Or start looking for jobs in Antarctica."
"Y-Yes, boss."
"LEAVE," she said in her voice-of-death tone.
He did. Probably to cry in the supply closet.
BACK IN THE OFFICE CUBICLES
Mr. Lee clambered onto a desk like a corporate town crier.
"Everyone, please!" he yelped. "There's been a misunderstanding. I—I spread the wrong information. Danica is NOT pregnant. I misheard something. I am deeply sorry."
The office was silent. Dead silent. Then—
"You absolute pervert," someone muttered.
Mr. Lee winced. It was going to be a long week.