The morning sun hit the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Sterling penthouse, beating straight down onto my face like a beam of pure disrespect.
I was standing in the middle of six thousand square feet of polished white marble wearing an oversized, faded drama department hoodie, grey sweatpants, and fuzzy flamingo slippers.
In front of me sat a silver espresso machine that looked less like a kitchen appliance and more like a high-tech piece of space equipment stolen directly from NASA’s secret vault.
Okay, Roxie, my brain started up its daily inner commentary booth.
You’ve played a Shakespearean villain.
You’ve memorized five-page monologues overnight.
You can handle a billionaire’s coffee maker without accidentally declaring war on the guest wing.
I stared at the glowing touchscreen display, which was currently offering operational choices in three different languages.
None of them were English.
“Great.
A trilingual coffee pot,” I muttered, squinting at the glass panel.
“Because regular caffeine isn’t classy enough for rich people.” I picked the biggest, most authoritative-looking button on the screen and smashed my thumb against it.
The machine let out an aggressive, ear-splitting hiss.
A cloud of scalding steam billowed from the side spout like a dragon losing its temper, and a shrill, high-pitched alarm chimed through the quiet apartment.
“Zero out of ten!
Do not recommend!” I took two violent steps back, throwing my hands up in the air like I was being held at gunpoint by stainless steel.
“Stop yelling at me!
I just wanted caffeine!
I’m on your side!” “If you press the steam wand purge while the water line is cold, it’s going to scream at you.” The deep, smooth voice came from right behind my left shoulder.
My body didn’t move, but my internal monologue went into immediate, four-alarm red alert.
Enter the main character, I thought, slowly leaning my head back.
Of course he walks in when I am actively losing a physical altercation to a kitchen appliance.
Of course.
God forbid I look like a functional human being for ten consecutive minutes.
Julian leaned around me, reaching out a long, tailored arm to press a small brass dial on the side.
The aggressive steam stopped instantly, replaced by the rich, warm hum of brewing espresso.
I blinked.
He was wearing a black fitted t-shirt—no tie, no suit jacket, no cold corporate armor—and his dark hair was still damp from the shower.
He smelled like sweet musk, the kind of insanely expensive luxury hotel lobby I would normally be security-escorted out of.
I stayed completely still, my eyes darting sideways to inspect his profile.
Excuse me, sir, my inner fan-girl chimed in with full surround-sound audio.
Who gave you permission to step out of a dark fantasy novel cover at eight o’clock in the morning?
Is this legal?
Where is the police department for illegal jawlines?
I am pretty sure this violates several municipal health codes.
“You’re supposed to select the grind size first,” Julian said quietly, reaching up to grab a glass mug from the upper cabinet.
His chest casually brushed against my shoulder as he reached over me, and my brain instantly short-circuited.
HOLD THE LINE, FOX!
my sanity shrieked, making me clutch the front of my oversized hoodie like a Victorian maiden scandalized by a bare ankle.
Do not let the billionaire physique distract you from the mission!
He is a brooding, dangerously wealthy CEO, and you are a broke college student trying to clear your tuition balance!
Focus!
“I was testing your security systems,” I replied smoothly, whipping out my best unbothered, high-society grin.
“A proper Lady Sterling makes sure even the kitchen appliances know their place.
You’re welcome, by the way.” Julian paused, the glass mug sitting halfway to the tray.
He looked down at me—taking in my messy bun, my fuzzy flamingo slippers, and the sheer, unadulterated audacity written across my face.
A tiny, almost imperceptible twitch appeared at the corner of his lips.
“My apologies, Lady Sterling,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, velvet frequency that made my toes curl inside my slippers.
“I didn’t realize you were conducting anti-terrorist drills on my coffee maker.” “I take my job very seriously,” I said, snatching the freshly poured espresso mug the second the liquid stopped dripping.
I took a tiny, dramatic sip, letting out a satisfied hum before pointing an accusing finger directly at his chest.
“Also, you are completely out of dress code.
Where is the crisp white shirt?
The intimidating silk tie?
How am I supposed to feel intimidated when you look like an off-duty action hero who just finished saving the world in a leather jacket?” Julian stared at me for three whole seconds, looking completely disarmed by my utter lack of survival instincts.
Nobody talked to him like this.
Not in his boardrooms, not in high-society ballrooms, and definitely not inside his private penthouse kitchen.
“I’ll be sure to put on a three-piece suit before my next glass of water,” he remarked dryly, though his dark eyes were practically swimming with quiet, amused warmth.
He turned toward the kitchen island, pulling out a sleek black tablet to review the morning market open.
But as he sat down, I caught his eyes drifting right back to where I was leaning against the counter, happily sipping my stolen caffeine and humming a drama school vocal warm-up under my breath.
I caught him looking, gave him a playful two-finger salute over the rim of my mug, and turned toward the floor-to-ceiling balcony windows to admire the city skyline.
Yeah, I thought with a secret, triumphant grin, feeling the lingering heat on my shoulder where his chest had brushed against me.
He thinks he’s the cold, unshakeable corporate dragon running this show.
But give me a week in this penthouse, Mr.
Sterling, and I’ll have you smiling like a regular human being.
“So,” I started, spinning around on my fuzzy slippers and resting my elbows against the cool quartz island like I was hosting my own morning talk show.
“Are we staring at quarter-three stock projections, or are you just using that tablet to hide the fact that you are deeply impressed by my morning routine?” Julian didn’t look up immediately, but his long fingers paused mid-scroll across the glass screen.
“Sterling Group stock is up three point eight percent following the gala footage.” “You’re welcome,” I said instantly.
That finally made him raise his head.
His dark eyes narrowed, a dangerous, quiet heat dancing behind them.
“For what, exactly?” “For bringing vitality back into your brand!” I gestured wildly with my mug, nearly splashing espresso onto his pristine white marble island.
“Before me, you were just another broody corporate billionaire threatening to fire executives via email.
Now?
You’re the mysterious nephew of a terrifying Monaco matriarch who roasts fortune hunters in front of national media.
I gave your corporate image flavor, Julian.” Julian leaned back in his leather barstool, crossing his arms over his chest.
Oh, danger zone, my brain screamed, my heart executing a quick, uninvited backflip against my ribs.
Arms folded, biceps stretched against the black cotton, direct eye contact.
Who authorized this?
Where is the union representative for fake contract workers?!
“Flavor,” Julian repeated slowly, his tone dripping with dry humor.
“Is that what we’re calling public chaos now?” “It’s art,” I corrected, taking two dramatic steps closer to the island.
“And as your highly paid, terrifying fake mother, I think you should express a little more gratitude.
A simple ‘Thank you, Lady Sterling, for saving my company’s social standing’ would suffice.” “I am paying you one hundred thousand dollars a month,” Julian noted, a rare, actual smirk finally breaking through his stoic CEO mask.
“I believe the gratitude is wired directly to your bank account on the first of every month.” “Details, details!
Money is so commercial!” I scoffed, waving a dismissive hand.
“What about emotional appreciation?
What about bringing your darling mother a second cup of coffee?” Julian stared at me, completely speechless.
A low, quiet chuckle escaped his chest—a sound so rare and genuine that my entire train of thought ran straight off the tracks.
Wait.
Did he just laugh?
A real laugh?
My internal emergency broadcast system started blaring red strobes.
Okay, red alert!
Code red!
The billionaire has a dimple!
I repeat, the billionaire has a dimple!
ABORT MISSION!
RETREAT TO THE GUEST WING!
“You are entirely unmanageable,” Julian said softly, standing up from his stool and easily towering over me.
He reached out and took the empty glass mug straight from my hand.
His warm fingers brushed against mine for a fraction of a second, shooting a jolt of pure heat straight up my arm and setting my pulse on fire.
He looked down at me, his dark eyes lingering on my lips for a terrifyingly long beat before meeting my gaze.
“Go put on real shoes, Roxie.
We have three days of protocol review before I throw you back into the boardroom lions’ den.” “Right,” I squeaked out, my throat going bone-dry before I caught myself and cleared it aggressively to save face.
“Do try not to miss me too much while I’m changing, nephew.” I turned around and marched back toward my wing of the penthouse as fast as my fuzzy flamingo slippers could carry me, clutching my burning face the absolute second I rounded the corner out of his sight.
Okay, I thought, slamming my bedroom door shut and leaning my back against the wood with a dramatic, breathless gasp.
We are officially in catastrophic trouble.
He isn’t just a cold CEO anymore.
He’s a cold CEO who laughs.
I did NOT sign up for this level of charm!
(╯°□°)╯ ┻━┻ [____] (Flips table AND keyboard) GUYS.
( x_x ) You came here expecting high-stakes corporate strategy, and instead, you got Roxie losing a physical altercation to a trilingual espresso machine in fuzzy flamingo slippers.
Can we talk about Julian’s smirk, though?
The man survived boardroom takeovers only to get completely disarmed by a broke drama major using a mug as a shield.
And to everyone yelling at Roxie to “focus on the tuition balance”—have you ever had a 6’4” billionaire in a fitted black tee stand close enough to smell like musk and luxury hotel lobbies at 8 AM?
Cut her some slack, her brain is doing extreme gymnastics right now!
( ; ఠ ͟ʖ ఠ) Quick Check-in: Team Flamingo Slippers or Team 3-Piece Suit?
How long until Julian completely breaks character and buys her an entire coffee plantation?