Mondays were made in hell. At least, that was what Roxy decided as she dragged herself through the revolving glass doors of Avelisse's head office, heels clacking against marble too pristine to feel anything but cold. The lobby gleamed like money, all soft gold fixtures and towering white arrangements of lilies that probably cost more than her rent. People walked fast in here, shoulders squared, lanyards bouncing. Roxy wanted to trip half of them, just to see if their expressions cracked.
If she could have her way, Mondays wouldn't exist at all. Every day would be Friday night—wine-sweet laughter with Sophia and Emily, music shaking her chest, neon light bending her hair into different shades of mischief. Or maybe every day would be Saturday morning, spent in bed with no alarm, hair claw tossed somewhere on the floor, sunlight spilling lazy over her blankets. She dreamed of becoming that rich aunt everyone whispered about: silk robes, bottomless mimosas, and never lifting a finger unless she felt like it.
But the world was cruel. Too cruel, even to pretty girls.
So here she was, twenty-five, not an aunt, not rich—yet, and draped in work suit instead of silk dress.
Despite everything—the gossip, the whispers that made her grit her teeth every time she walked into the building—Roxy loved her job.
Avelisse wasn't just any company. It was the fashion house: one of those rare brands whose gowns were spoken about in reverent tones. Couture that floated down red carpets. Beaded, hand-stitched masterpieces meant for women who thought in millions, not hundreds.
Roxy had grown up with posters ripped from magazines taped to her bedroom wall, circling photos of gowns she couldn't even pronounce the names of. She loved the elegance, the sheer theatre of it. So when she applied to work here as a marketing strategist four months ago, it wasn't a whim. It was hunger.
And yet.
Her boss, Cillian Vernon—yes, the same man she'd spotted at the club Friday night—was a human blockade in a perfectly tailored suit. No matter how many times she tried to push her ideas, he dismissed them with clipped words and that cool, strict stare. Every single time.
She slumped into her desk now, tossing her tote down with a sigh. She'd prepared most of her materials for the weekly meeting already, but the cursed part still loomed: the PowerPoint.
Roxy hated slides. They felt sterile, boring, everything she wasn't. But if she didn't make them, Cillian would have fresh ammunition to use against her, like last week when he coolly pointed out, "Preparation shows respect for the team's time." She'd wanted to throw her coffee at him. Instead, she'd smiled with all her teeth and promised it wouldn't happen again.
So here she was, glaring at her laptop screen as if her sheer willpower could make the slides build themselves.
The cough came before the shadow.
Roxy rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt, but by the time she swiveled in her chair, she'd plastered on the kind of smile that could kill a weaker soul. "Good morning, Gina."
Gina, junior designer. The bane of Roxy's mornings. She wore her hair in a sleek bob today, sharp enough to slice air, and leaned just a little too close to Roxy's desk, eyes darting to the laptop screen.
Roxy slammed the lid down with a click. Then she turned fully in her chair, crossing her legs, smile bright and poisonous. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Gina shrugged, fake-innocent. "Just checking if the men's favorite girl is ready for the meeting. But .…" Her gaze flicked to the closed laptop. "Looks like not even half the slides are done."
Roxy let her smile stretch wider, sugar over arsenic. "Funny. I didn't realize my work was any of your business."
"Maybe not mine." Gina tilted her head, voice feigning sweetness. "But our boss? Definitely his. He's already in the meeting room, by the way. Waiting."
That made Roxy pause. She lifted a brow. "Now? It's nine o'clock. The meeting's at ten. Don't fool me."
"Maybe you made a mistake." Gina's shrug was theatrical, her nails tapping the desk. "Or maybe he heard the rumor. Just so you know, Mr. Vernon hates waiting. And when he's mad .…" She trailed off, smirking.
Roxy narrowed her eyes. She didn't trust this for a second. But still—better safe than sorry. She gathered her laptop and notebook, standing with a deliberate grace that made the movement feel like mockery. "If this is a prank," she said coolly, "I'll have a word. With your laptop. Out the window."
Gina only smirked wider, then sashayed back to her desk like she'd just won something. "Good luck, Roxanne, you may need that."
Roxy muttered under her breath as she walked the corridor, heels snapping against the polished floor. She didn't believe for a second the meeting had been rescheduled, but if there was even a chance Cillian was sitting there, waiting, she couldn't risk it. God, if he caught her without slides—she could already hear the disappointment in his voice, the pointed look over the rim of his glasses.
She pushed the door open. Empty. As expected.
"Unbelievable," she muttered, tossing her laptop onto the polished table. She dropped into a chair with a thud and flipped it open again. "Gina, you evil little—"
Her fingers flew over the keyboard, fixing the layout, choosing fonts she didn't care about, adding bullet points she wanted to scream against. The one silver lining was the silence. No Gina, no gossip, no noise. Just her and the glow of her unfinished work. The kind of peace she wouldn't get in a normal hectic Monday.
Still, she couldn't resist muttering curses, directing them at Gina in absentia. "You asshole. Always jealous of people like me, huh? Guess you just suck as fuck." She jabbed the trackpad harder than necessary. "Bet you dream about being me. Keep dreaming. Fame fucker."
"What a language, Ms. Duval."
The voice was low, smooth, unmistakable. Roxy froze. Her head snapped up, stomach sinking.
Cillian Vernon stood in the doorway, suit as sharp as the first day she'd met him, dark eyes unreadable. He walked past her without hurry, pulling out his usual chair at the far end of the table and setting a folder down. Every movement is precise. Controlled.
Shit. He'd heard her. Okay, whatever. She didn't mean to be heard by anyone. Besides, all she said was true. No regret.
Roxy swallowed, then coughed lightly, forcing her voice into calm. "Mr. Vernon, I … heard you wanted to see me?"
He looked at her briefly, then gave a single, measured nod. "I wanted to warn you. Keep the drama outside of the office. Don't let gossip affect the team's dynamic." To the point, just typical Cillian.
Roxy blinked, frowning. "Excuse me? What are you talking about?"
"The rumor." His tone didn't rise or fall. It simply existed, steady and cool, cutting sharper because of it.
Roxy snorted, sitting back in her chair. "That's bullsh—nonsense. Absolute nonsense. I didn't fuc—" She caught herself, biting back the word. "I didn't sleep with half the office. I don't even know how that's a thing, or who started it. It's ridiculous."
Her voice quickened, her hands gesturing in exasperation. "Do you really think I'd waste my time like that? I work. I show up. I give my best. And if people are threatened by that, fine, but it's not my fault. I'm not guilty. Whoever made it up is the one stirring drama, not me."
Her words tumbled out too fast, too defensive, but she couldn't help it. She was accustomed to cursing through her frustrations, and keeping her language clipped for her boss only made her explanations feel more clumsy.
Cillian watched her, expression unreadable, though something flickered in his eyes—annoyance, intrigue, maybe both. He wasn't the type to tolerate chaos. He lived in order, in discipline, in silence broken only by precision. Having someone talk back to him so freely was rare. It irritated him. And, unwillingly, it interested him.
"I don't care whether the rumor is true or not," he said finally, his voice sharp enough to slice the room in half. "I'm warning you. That's all."
Roxy crossed her arms, chin tilting up. "Why only warn me? Because I speak up? Because you think I'm a potential troublemaker?"
His gaze narrowed. "You always like to twist words, don't you?"
"Maybe," she shot back, eyes narrowing too. "My questions are still valid, either way."
The tension stretched between them, thick, electric. Then Roxy snapped her laptop shut, rose from her chair, and scooped it under her arm. Without another word, she turned toward the door.
Just as her hand reached the knob, his voice came again, cool and certain. "Next time, prepare the slides earlier."
She froze. Her stomach clenched. How the hell did he know she hadn't finished them? But she didn't give him the satisfaction of asking. She simply exhaled, forced her shoulders to relax, and walked out without looking back.
Shitty day. Already.
As she stalked down the corridor, she remembered Sophia's laugh from Friday, the teasing glint in her eyes when she'd whispered, but he's handsome, isn't he?
Well, yes. Handsome. Sharp-jawed, tall, too put-together to be real. But with that personality? Hell. No.
She loved this job. She loved the brand. She wasn't going to let some gossip or some strict, untouchable boss ruin it. If the world wanted to play cruel, she'd play sassier.
By the time she reached her desk again, her lips had already curved into a smirk. She sat down, opened her laptop, and began hammering through the last of her slides with renewed purpose.
Cillian Vernon could keep his rules. She'd find a way to turn this place to her liking. The meeting suddenly didn't feel so dreadful anymore.