SOFIA
The kettle shrieks like it's being murdered, but honestly, same.
If I were a kitchen appliance forced to function in a broke twenty-eight-year-old's apartment, I'd probably scream too.
Steam curls up, fogging the single narrow window above my sink. Outside, the city is a pale blur, rooftops frosted white, taxis slicing through the morning like they have urgent destinies. Meanwhile, my only destiny is surviving another day without my bank balance filing for divorce.
I set the kettle down and it burns my finger. Figures. I shake it off and turn back to the kitchen counter where bills are fanned out like a losing hand of cards. Rent. Electricity. Mom's medical payments. And the newest addition—an envelope with a cheery red OVERDUE stamp that practically winks at me.
Cute.
I tell myself it's fine. Everything is fine.
Except fine people don't ration rice and convince themselves black coffee counts as breakfast, lunch, and personality all in one.
I tear open the top bill anyway—just to torture myself—and skim the numbers. Too many. I shove it under the pile, like burying it will make it less real. Then I pour my coffee, sip, and pretend the bitterness is a choice. Coffee doesn't need to taste good. It just needs to drag me into some kind of functional state where I can keep lying to my parents about how "manageable" everything is.
My phone buzzes.
MOM: Did you eat? Don't forget lunch.
I smile faintly even though my throat tightens. Mom is recovering slowly, her body weaker than she'll ever admit. If she knew how close the lights are to going off, she'd spiral into worry again. So I type back quickly:
ME: Yes. All good.
Translation: No. Unless you count stale rice in a plastic container waiting in the fridge.
Getting ready for work has become a rehearsed ritual. Black slacks. White blouse. The good shoes that pinch a little but look professional. Hair in a low bun because apparently messy buns are only cute on Instagram, not in corporate offices where everyone pretends perfection pays the bills.
In the mirror, my eyeliner wing is slightly uneven. So is my life.
Outside, the cold stings, sharp enough to make my eyes water. My breath fogs as I speed-walk to the bus stop, shoulders hunched against the wind. Mrs. Galloway from the next building is out with her Pomeranian, who's wearing a sweater that probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget. The dog's smug little trot is the cherry on top.
The bus groans up ten minutes late—time I don't have—but I climb aboard and snag a seat by the window. Earbuds in, upbeat playlist on, because optimism by playlist is cheaper than therapy. It almost works. Almost.
---
Stoneleaf Design greets me like it always does: glass-and-steel lobby gleaming under fluorescent lights, the faint scent of someone's expensive perfume mingling with printer toner. People in tailored suits stride around like their emails are the cure to cancer.
This is my world.
My desk is tucked in the admin section, strategically positioned under a vent that alternates between arctic blast and Sahara heat depending on its mood. I log in, dump my bag under the desk, and lose myself in the safe monotony of numbers, reports, and schedules. Numbers don't judge. Numbers don't care if your dad's company is seconds from collapse. Numbers don't demand rent on time.
By eleven, my inbox looks like a war zone and I've already considered faking my death twice.
Then, I hear them.
Low, conspiratorial voices drifting from the break room.
I wander in for a refill of lukewarm coffee and catch two junior analysts mid-gossip. One's stirring sugar like she's solving world hunger; the other is scrolling her phone, eyes wide.
"He's back in town," Sugar-Stirrer whispers.
"Who?" Phone-Scroller doesn't even look up.
"Adrian Vale. You know. The cold billionaire."
Phone-Scroller perks up instantly. "The iceberg in a suit? No way."
"I heard he froze out half the board last quarter. Total massacre. The man doesn't even blink."
They don't notice me until I'm already by the fridge, milk carton in hand. Their voices die mid-sentence like I've walked in on national secrets. I give a polite nod, fill my cup, and retreat before my curiosity betrays me.
But back at my desk, the name sticks.
Adrian Vale.
It sounds like it belongs on glossy magazine covers or headlines screaming The Untouchable Tycoon. I've never met him, but the way those analysts said his name—half awe, half fear—plants an image in my head: a man who could ruin you with a phone call and sleep like a baby afterward.
The day drags. By 5:32, I shut down my computer, slip out before anyone can ask me to "just quickly" finish something, and board the bus home.
The ride is slow, the city smeared in golden light. A kid kicks the seat in front of him like it owes him money, a man hums off-key in the back, and I sit quietly, forehead pressed to the glass, watching the skyline sharpen against the fading sky.
Normal.
When I get home, the apartment greets me with silence and the faint stale smell of coffee grounds. Bills still wait on the counter like smug judges. I drop onto the couch and stare at them.
But my mind keeps wandering back to the break room.
To hushed voices. To the way his name was spoken like both a warning and an invitation.
Adrian Vale.
Men like him don't live in the same world as me. They don't ride buses, scrape change for rent, or ration cold rice into Tupperware. They own the buildings people like me shuffle through. They sign the checks that decide whether my family eats or starves.
And yet… something about it hooks me. Not admiration. Not quite fear.
Curiosity. The dangerous kind.
I should be stressing over how to stretch my salary until Friday. Instead, I'm lying in the dark wondering what kind of man earns a reputation like his—iceberg, executioner, untouchable.
And what would happen if our worlds ever collided.
Spoiler: nothing good.
Still, as I flick off the light, his name hums in the back of my mind, stubborn and insistent.
Adrian Vale.