The subway was late. Of course it was. On the one Monday Clara Martín desperately needed everything to run smoothly, New York City had other plans. She stood on the crowded platform with her bag slung over her shoulder, checking her phone for the sixth time in ten minutes.
8:37 a.m. The meeting started at nine.
Her chest tightened as she imagined her boss's disappointed frown. If she sprinted from the station to the office, she might just make it. Maybe. If there weren't any more delays, if the universe finally decided to cut her a break.
The train screeched into the station with a deafening metallic groan. Clara squeezed inside, pressed between strangers in stiff suits, the air thick with the mingled scent of cologne, coffee, and impatience. By the time she reached Midtown, her hair was frizzy from the underground humidity, her nerves frayed, and her overpriced latte lukewarm.
She bolted up the stairs, emerging into the chaos of Manhattan streets. Yellow cabs honked like it was a sport, pedestrians cursed as they shoved past her, and the crosswalk lights seemed deliberately set against her. Still, she ran—heels clacking against the pavement, tote bag bouncing at her side—until she finally reached the glass and steel building that towered like a judgmental giant above her.
Blake & Co.
8:52. Seven minutes. She could do this.
Clara pushed through the revolving doors, nearly colliding with a security guard as she muttered a breathless "sorry." The lobby gleamed with polished marble, too pristine for her rushed presence. She sprinted toward the elevators, clinging to her coffee cup like a lifeline. And then it happened.
She rounded the corner.
He rounded the corner.
And physics decided to make her day even worse.
The collision was brutal enough to send hot coffee sloshing all over her blouse and—God help her—onto his immaculate navy suit. The impact knocked her off balance, papers spilling from her tote, her coffee cup tumbling to the floor in slow motion.
"Oh no, no, no—" she gasped, kneeling to gather her things, completely aware of the deep, annoyed breath drawn above her.
When she finally dared to look up, she was met with the kind of face that belonged on magazine covers: sharp jawline, dark hair swept neatly back, eyes a shade of gray that made her stomach twist. Unfortunately, those eyes were glaring directly at her.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered, brushing at his suit jacket, though the stain was already obvious.
Clara's mouth fell open. "I—I'm so sorry. I didn't see you."
"Clearly." His tone was clipped, British-tinged, and far too calm for someone with caramel latte dripping down his sleeve. He glanced at his watch with a sigh. "Perfect timing."
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "I'll pay for the dry cleaning, I promise." She scrambled for a napkin from her bag, nearly tearing her wallet in the process. Her hands shook, making the situation worse.
"Don't." He held up a hand, cool and dismissive. "You'll only spread it."
Clara froze, her heart pounding. Her entire Monday had been one disaster after another, and now she had quite literally baptized the most intimidating man in the building with overpriced caffeine.
Because that's who he was—Adrian Blake. Senior associate. The kind of man who walked through the office like he owned it, who had a reputation for brilliance and cold efficiency. Clara had seen him from afar countless times, always surrounded by whispers and admiration. But she'd never been this close. She'd certainly never ruined his suit.
She swallowed hard, trying to salvage her dignity. "Again, I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention."
He studied her for a moment, expression unreadable. Then, to her utter shock, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but something dangerously close. "You don't say."
Clara blinked, caught off guard by the flicker of amusement in his otherwise frosty demeanor. But it was gone just as quickly, replaced by cool detachment. He stepped around her, collected, as if she were nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle.
Panic jolted through her. "Wait—you're going to the meeting, aren't you? The Thompson pitch?"
Adrian paused, glancing over his shoulder. "Yes. Why?"
"Because—because I'm presenting." The words tumbled out before she could stop them.
For the first time, real surprise crossed his face. His brows lifted slightly, those gray eyes sweeping over her in quiet assessment. "You're presenting?"
"Yes," she said, straighter this time, willing herself not to crumble. "Clara Martín. Marketing."
Something unreadable passed through his expression before he simply nodded once. "Try not to spill anything else before then."
And just like that, he disappeared into the elevator, leaving Clara kneeling on the marble floor with a ruined blouse, a wrecked latte, and the sinking feeling that her Monday had only just begun.
---
By the time she finally made it to the conference room, she was out of breath and out of luck. Every seat was filled, the atmosphere charged with corporate anticipation. And there he was, seated at the head of the table like he owned not just the room, but the entire building. Adrian Blake. Untouched by chaos. Untouchable.
Her cheeks burned as she slid into her seat, doing her best to avoid his gaze. But she felt it anyway—like the prickling heat of a spotlight.
When her turn came to present, her hands trembled around the remote. Her slides blurred together, her voice unsteady. Every mistake felt magnified under Adrian's quiet scrutiny.
Halfway through, her laptop froze. Of course it did. Clara's heart sank, humiliation pressing in on all sides. She fumbled with the cables, mumbling apologies, while the room collectively sighed in impatience.
And then, out of nowhere, he was beside her.
Adrian leaned down, his cologne crisp and distracting, his fingers moving swiftly across her laptop. In less than a minute, the screen flickered back to life.
"There," he said quietly, low enough for only her to hear. "Don't panic. Keep going."
Clara's breath caught, not at his words but at the tone—gentle, steady, almost kind.
She nodded, regaining her footing, and somehow managed to finish the presentation without collapsing. The applause was polite, her relief immense.
As the meeting adjourned, Clara packed her things with shaking hands, desperate to disappear before she embarrassed herself further. But as she reached the door, a voice stopped her.
"Martín."
She froze. Slowly, she turned. Adrian stood there, jacket off, coffee stain still faintly visible but his expression impossible to read.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice higher than she intended.
His gaze lingered on her, sharp and assessing, before he said simply, "Next time, buy two coffees. One for you, one for me. Call it…insurance."
And then he walked away, leaving Clara rooted to the spot, pulse racing, caught somewhere between mortification and disbelief.
Monday morning chaos, indeed.