ADRIAN
The first thing I smell when I walk in isn't the scotch I'm craving.
It's vinegar.Which means Marta's been cleaning. Perfect.
Marta has been here longer than most people in my life. Housekeeper by title, mother by temperament. She's always taken care of me, even when my real mother acted indifferent.
She knows when I'm lying, when I've skipped meals, when I've been drinking too much. And she's got a sixth sense for stains. That doesn't really help my case.
I glance down at the blotch spreading across thefrontofmyshirt. Dark red. It's the kind that's impossible to hide under soft hallway light. If Marta sees this, she'll lose it. And she'll turn it into a lecture about self respect and presentation.
So I angle my body away, tug my lapel higher, and make for my room. If I can get past her…
"Adrian."
Her voice snaps behind me. Of course she's there. Here we go.
She strides out, gray hair pinned back in its usual severe knot, eyes narrowing like I'm still the boy who used to track mud through her clean floors. For a heartbeat, I think maybe she hasn't noticed.
Then her gaze drops.
"Is that cabernet?" she demands, already tugging at my jacket.
"Merlot," I mutter, trying to edge past her.
"Even worse." She clicks her tongue, yanking at the lapel like she'll tear it off if I don't surrender it. "On a Brioni suit. Dios mío, Adrian, what were you thinking?"
I let her peel the jacket from my shoulders. "I wasn't the one holding the glass."
She tsks, shaking the fabric out like she might shame the stain into disappearing. "You stand still and let it happen? No, no. You must have provoked someone. Only way. You're impossible sometimes."
A corner of my mouth curves before I can stop it. If anyone else dared scold me, they'd find themselves stripped of their tongue or their fortune, depending on my mood. Marta? She's untouchable. The closest thing I have to family.
"I didn't provoke her," I say, loosening my cufflinks. "She… surprised me."
That earns me a sharp look, the kind that used to freeze me mid-lie when I was twelve. "Her?"
I don't answer. Not directly. Instead, I pour myself a drink, letting the burn of the scotch settle where her eyes can't reach. Marta keeps muttering in Spanish as she dabs at the stain, but I'm not listening anymore.
It's not the ruined suit that's bothering me.
It's the woman who ruined it.
Her voice is still there, circling like smoke.
'It's not fine. You should probably get that cleaned before it stains.'
The way she didn't stammer, didn't lower her gaze, didn't fold the way everyone else always does. It's a freaking turn on.
People fear me. They should. That's the way I built it. But she—
She looked straight through the armor and chose to shove.
Marta clicks her tongue again. "You're smiling."
I glance at the dark glass in my hand. "No, I'm not."
"Right, you don't do those"
By the time Marta carries the jacket off like a battlefield casualty, I already have my phone in hand. My thumb hesitates only once before I make the call.
"Find out everything you can about Sofia Richards," I tell my man on the other end. "Family, history, weaknesses. I want it all by morning."
A pause. "Yes sir"
I end the call, finishing the scotch in a single swallow.
I tell myself this interest is nothing more than curiosity, the same way you might wonder how a stray cat ended up in your office.
But I'm lying.
Most people squirm when in my presence, she didn't.
That makes her either the stupidest woman I've ever met…
Or the most interesting.
My morning schedule runs like clockwork. Calls with Hong Kong at six, quick stop at the gym, black coffee in the office by eight. By ten, I should be buried in numbers.
Instead, I'm at my desk scrolling through last night's guest list.
I don't have to look hard—her name's there, tucked between her father and mother's. Sofia Richards. Guest of Daniel Richards, listed under Richards Construction. The company's name pings something in my memory. Minor contracts. Something like that.
A few more clicks, and the picture starts to fill in. Family business, nothing spectacular. The kind of operation that survives on reputation and a steady flow of small but loyal clients. Except…
They ae declining numbers. A few missed deadlines and pending lawsuits.
And one detail that catches my attention more than it should: two of their former clients are now mine. Not intentionally stolen—just business. But in my experience, patterns mean something.
I shut the screen. This is where I should stop. I have no reason to care.
But that stupid part of me that always wants more tells me to continue.
I've learned the hard way that the cracks in a person's life are where the real truths hide.
By noon, I've almost convinced myself to forget her. The keyword being almost.
I'm in the penthouse conference room with Keller, my head of security, going over logistics for next week's trip. He's running through staff rosters when he pauses, glancing at the file in his hand.
"Ran that name you flagged this morning," he says.
Did I?
"Sofia Richards. Twenty-eight. Works as a project coordinator for some boutique design firm downtown. Apartment in Lower Manhattan, rents, no property ownership. Clean record, though her father's got a few close calls—OSHA violations, unpaid fines. Mother runs part of the business admin. No siblings."
I nod once, not looking up from the contract I'm signing.
"Anything else?"
"Not unless you want me to dig deeper."
"No."
It comes out sharper than intended. Keller studies me for a beat, then moves on.
When the meeting ends, I stay by the window, watching the city. The streets below move like clockwork—yellow cabs threading through traffic, pedestrians clutching coffee cups, delivery trucks double-parked like they own the road.
It's a city of noise and movement. You learn to filter most of it out.
So why can't I filter her out?
I tell myself it's because people like her don't usually cross my path—not without an agenda. The charity crowd is full of sycophants and sharks in evening wear. Sofia Richards didn't look like either. She looked like someone who'd been dragged there against her will. Someone whose tolerance for bullshit had a hard ceiling.
There was also the fact that she looked me dead in the eye and told me exactly what she thought. No hesitation. No fear.
I've had adversaries who wouldn't do that.
By late afternoon, my day has dragged me into the usual rotation of calls, signatures, and controlled negotiations. It should've drowned her out completely.
I get a message from an old contact in the construction industry who's owed me a favor for the last seven years.
"Richards Construction's about to fold," the message says. "Word is they're looking for an out before they drown."
It's just information. But it's useful.
I should file it away.
Instead, I find myself wondering if she knows.
I leave the office just after eight, later than usual, the sky over the city bleeding into indigo. My driver is waiting by the curb.
The ride uptown is quiet, the hum of the engine masking my thoughts.
I pass the restaurant where my parents used to take me once a year, back when my father still believed in "special occasions." I haven't set foot inside since the night he walked out. He's still alive—technically—but that's where it ended. The last time I saw my mother, she pressed a cufflink into my hand like it was the only thing she could give me.
I've learned since then not to need anyone. And when you don't need anyone, you can't be disappointed.
Which is why this… irritation… at thinking about Sofia Richards is unacceptable.
She's nothing to me.A name on a guest list.
A red stain on a suit.
An accident I've already forgotten.
That's the story I'm sticking to.
Even if, somewhere underneath the denial, there's a part of me wondering when I'm going to see her again.