Aria Hale woke up that morning with the optimism of someone who had clearly learned nothing from past disasters. She stood in front of her bathroom mirror, toothbrush in hand, and gave herself the pep talk of a lifetime.
"Okay, Aria," she muttered through foamy toothpaste. "Today is the day. No coffee spills, no tripping over office chairs, no humiliating yourself in front of the CEO. You will be… professional."
She spat, rinsed, and nodded at her reflection. Her reflection, unhelpfully, looked back at her with bed hair and skeptical eyes, as if to say, Sure, Jan.
By the time she made it onto the subway, she had rehearsed her plan at least ten times. Walk in, greet Mia, sit at desk, work silently. Blend in like wallpaper. Easy.
Except her tote bag strap snapped halfway up the office steps, spilling papers and half a granola bar across the marble floor. A security guard helped her gather everything while she tried not to cry. Not a disaster, she told herself. Just… a minor hiccup. A hiccup can't ruin a whole day.
But the real disaster was waiting in her inbox.
By 9:20 a.m., Aria had logged into her computer, tied her hair into a messy bun, and opened her emails with the grim determination of a soldier preparing for battle. Dozens of unread messages blinked at her, demanding replies. She worked through them methodically until she reached one from HR titled: Corporate Gala Reminder.
It was a company-wide announcement about the mandatory dress code: heels, evening gowns, suits, ties—the works.
Mia leaned across the aisle, whispering, "Can you believe it? They want us to dress like Victorian mannequins. My feet are going to file a lawsuit against me."
Still typing, Aria replied without thinking.
> Honestly, these rules are ridiculous. Who cares if we wear flats instead of heels? If they want us to look classy, maybe they should stop hiring people who think socks with sandals are acceptable.
She hit send, still sipping her latte.
One second later, her heart stopped. The screen confirmed it: Reply All.
Her eyes bulged. "No… no, no, no—oh my God, no!"
Mia blinked. "What?"
"I replied all!" Aria whispered, panic flooding her veins. "Everyone. The entire company just got my rant about socks and sandals!"
Mia opened her inbox and snorted so loudly the entire row turned. "Oh my God, you did. You savage!"
Heads popped up over cubicle walls. Whispers erupted like wildfire. People started scrolling through their phones, chuckling. A guy from accounting wheezed, "She's not wrong though—Greg wore socks with Birkenstocks last summer."
"Hey!" Greg protested from across the room, only making the laughter louder.
Aria wanted to crawl under her desk and live there until retirement. "This is it," she muttered. "This is how I die. Death by Reply All."
The laughter was still bubbling when the glass door to the corner office opened.
Damian Wolfe stepped out.
The air changed instantly. Laughter evaporated like mist in sunlight. Conversations froze mid-sentence. The CEO didn't raise his voice or even frown, but his presence silenced the floor.
He was tall, composed, and terrifyingly handsome in his charcoal-gray suit, silver eyes sweeping the room like a searchlight. His expression was unreadable, but his aura demanded attention—respect, even fear.
"Why," he asked softly, "is the office buzzing like a marketplace?"
No one answered. Everyone stared at their monitors, pretending to be deeply fascinated by spreadsheets.
Except Aria. Damian's gaze locked onto her like a wolf scenting prey.
"Miss Hale," he said, his deep voice carrying across the silent floor. "My office. Now."
Mia whispered, "Rest in peace," as Aria staggered to her feet.
The walk to his office felt like the world's longest funeral procession. Every pair of eyes followed her. Someone whispered, "She's toast." Another muttered, "It was nice knowing her."
Inside his office, the air was cooler, sharper. The glass walls gave a perfect view of the city skyline, but Aria couldn't appreciate it. Not when Damian Wolfe was seated behind his sleek desk, hands folded, staring at her like a judge awaiting confession.
"Sit," he ordered.
She obeyed, perching on the edge of the chair.
Damian tilted his head slightly. "So. You have… thoughts about our dress code."
Aria's face burned so hot she was convinced she'd combust. "I—I didn't mean to send that to everyone. It was supposed to be private. Just between me and Mia."
He leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow arching. "So you did intend to criticize company policy, just not publicly?"
She flailed. "No! I mean, yes, but—not in a bad way! It's just… socks with sandals are a crime."
For the briefest second, something flickered across his face. Amusement? Impossible. Damian Wolfe didn't do amusement.
"Miss Hale," he said smoothly, "do you understand the implications of mass-emailing your… fashion judgments?"
"Yes, Mr. Wolfe," she squeaked.
"And the way gossip travels in an office environment?"
"Yes, Mr. Wolfe."
"And that undermining company policy—even unintentionally—reflects poorly on both you and the company?"
Her voice was barely audible. "Yes, Mr. Wolfe."
He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "I don't tolerate chaos in my company. But…" He paused, letting the silence stretch. "I will allow you one mistake. Just one."
Relief rushed through her. "Thank you, sir. I swear it won't happen again."
"Good," he said. Then, unexpectedly, his lips curved—just slightly. "Although I agree. Socks with sandals should be outlawed."
Aria blinked. Did he… joke? Did the CEO of Moonlight Enterprises just joke with her?
Before she could react, his expression smoothed back into stone. "Return to your desk. And next time, proofread."
Her heart raced as she scrambled out of his office. The second she stepped onto the main floor, Mia popped up.
"Well?"
Aria slumped into her chair. "I'm not fired."
The office burst into muffled snickers. Someone whispered, "She survived the Wolf." Another said, "Legend."
All afternoon, people gave her exaggerated nods of respect. Greg from accounting even brought her a muffin as a peace offering for his footwear crimes.
Aria tried to focus on her tasks, but her mind kept flashing back to Damian's faint smirk, his silver eyes glinting with something unreadable.
Maybe he wasn't as untouchable as everyone believed.
And maybe, just maybe, her disasters weren't done with him yet.