Elara Hart believed in many things. Coffee was a religion. Sarcasm was a survival skill. And Damien Kane was sent from the underworld purely to test her patience.
By her second morning at Kane Corp, she was armed with all three.
The assignment seemed simple enough: pick up Damien's coffee order before the 8:30 meeting with the board. How hard could it be? She'd handled triple deadlines, grouchy professors, and a broken-down bus system for years. A latte should be a walk in the park.
Except Damien's order wasn't "a latte." It was a triple-shot, oat-milk, extra-hot, one-pump-vanilla, two-splenda, foam-only cappuccino. She had it written down like a bomb-defusing code.
And, naturally, the barista still got it wrong.
By the time Elara burst into the thirty-second floor, her heels clicking too loudly on the sleek floors, the lid of Damien's cup had already betrayed her. Foam leaked down the side like a crime scene.
"Perfect," she muttered, swiping at it with a napkin. "Exactly the impression I wanted to make."
Damien's office door was half-open. Inside, she could hear his voice—smooth, clipped, laced with authority. He was on a call again.
"Yes. I said ten percent, not eight. Do I have to spell everything out for you?" A pause. "Good. Then don't call me again until it's fixed."
Elara winced. The poor soul on the other end was probably trembling. She inhaled sharply, squared her shoulders, and marched inside.
"Good morning, Mr. Kane," she said brightly, placing the cup on his desk.
Damien's gaze flicked to her. First at the cup. Then at the drip of foam inching toward his files.
His jaw tightened.
"Elara," he said slowly. "Is my coffee… leaking?"
"It's not leaking, it's just…expressing itself," she said quickly, grabbing another napkin to mop up the evidence.
A beat of silence. Then, unbelievably, one corner of his mouth twitched.
"Expressing itself?"
"Very passionately," she added, scrubbing harder.
For a moment, Damien just stared at her. And Elara realized something terrifying: he was amused. His eyes weren't cold steel anymore—they had that faint glint she was beginning to recognize. The one that said she'd accidentally entertained him.
"Sit down," he said finally, gesturing at the chair across from him.
She froze. "Is this about the coffee? Because in my defense, the barista—"
"It's not about the coffee," he interrupted, his tone dry. "Though, if you survive here, I expect you to learn how to order one correctly. No excuses."
Elara bit back the urge to salute. "Yes, sir. Mission cappuccino accepted."
He arched a brow at her sarcasm. "You seem very confident for someone who nearly baptized my quarterly reports in foam."
Her lips twitched. Don't smile, don't smile. "I work well under pressure."
"Do you?" His gaze lingered a second too long. Like he wasn't just talking about the office anymore.
The air between them shifted, subtle but undeniable. Elara felt it buzz along her skin. She quickly straightened the files on his desk just to give her hands something to do.
Damien leaned back in his chair, regarding her with that unreadable expression again. "Tell me, Ms. Hart, why did you apply for this position?"
Elara blinked. She hadn't expected an interview question on day two. "Because… it was posted?"
"Try again."
She hesitated, then lifted her chin. "Because I wanted a challenge. Because I'm good at what I do. And because Kane Corp is the kind of place that turns assistants into CEOs—if they don't run screaming first."
His lips curved, but not quite into a smile. "Ambitious."
"Surprised?"
"No," Damien said smoothly. "But ambition without discipline is useless. I'll test both."
The way he said it made heat prickle at the back of her neck. It wasn't just a professional challenge. It felt like a dare.
The intercom buzzed, saving her from having to answer. Damien pressed the button. "Yes?"
"Mr. Kane," his secretary outside said, "the board is ready for you."
He stood, adjusting his cufflinks with precise movements. "You're coming with me."
Elara blinked. "What? Why?"
"You take notes. You observe. You learn." He slid a briefcase off the desk and strode toward the door. "Unless you'd rather stay here and practice ordering coffee correctly?"
Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. She grabbed her notebook and hurried after him.
---
The boardroom was massive, glass-walled, with a view of the city that made Elara's stomach drop. Around the table sat a dozen men and women in suits, each radiating power and disapproval.
Damien entered like he owned not just the room, but the whole skyline outside it. Which, in a way, he probably did. Elara trailed behind, acutely aware of every pair of eyes flicking toward her.
"This is Ms. Hart," Damien said with a wave of his hand. "My new assistant. Don't waste her time either."
Elara barely managed not to choke. Did he just… defend my time?
The meeting launched into numbers, projections, and corporate jargon. Elara scribbled furiously, trying to keep up. Every so often, Damien leaned close to murmur, "Summarize that later," or "Highlight that point." His cologne wrapped around her, subtle but distracting.
By the end, her notebook was a mess of shorthand and doodles that looked suspiciously like a dagger aimed at Damien's smirk.
As the board members filed out, Damien glanced at her notes. His brows lifted slightly.
"You doodle during million-dollar negotiations?"
Elara flushed. "That's… a pie chart."
"Looks like a weapon."
"Depends on how you use it."
For a moment, his gaze caught hers. The corner of his mouth tilted again, just barely. Then he shut the folder with a snap.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you'll do better."
Elara exhaled, half relieved, half annoyed. He was impossible. Infuriating. Unbearably smug.
And, she realized with a shiver, dangerously addictive.