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CHAPTER THREE

ALICE

When I reach my floor, the office is already humming. The other admins swarm like caffeinated bees, ferrying documents and muttering about the new HR guidelines for "seamless workflow integration," whatever that means. I’m barely in my seat before my inbox explodes. A new message flashes red at the top of the queue. URGENT: YOU ARE ASSIGNED TO EXECUTIVE BUDGET MEETING – 9 AM. There’s a full paragraph of threats about “strict confidentiality” and “absolute accuracy,” but all I see is the part where I have to take notes. In a budget meeting. With the senior execs.

Fantastic. The universe really has it in for me.

I chug lukewarm coffee, praying for superpowers. My hands are already sweating all over the keyboard. Why me? Why now?

I groan. This is going to suck so bad.

I duck into the tiny break room, do a quick deodorant check, and try to finger-comb my hair into something that doesn’t look like a bird’s nest. Then I march to Conference Room B.

It’s already packed. I spot Jonathon Martin, my boss, deep in conversation with the head of Legal. There’s a scattering of VPs along the wall, all suited up and looking extra smug. I squeeze into my usual corner chair and line up my stuff: laptop, gel pens, spiral-bound notepad. What can I say? I like to be prepared for anything. I double-check that my blouse is buttoned, my skirt isn’t bunched up, and my coffee cup is securely positioned far, far from the edge of the table.

The room fills. The volume rises. I try to ignore the glances from the senior staff.

Right at nine o’clock, the glass doors beyond the head of the table sweep open. A hush falls. All eyes swing to the entrance, and I follow suit, dreading the arrival of someone way above my pay grade.

Instead, my heart stops. The man walking in isn’t a VP. He’s a goddamn category five hurricane in a suit. Dark, predatory eyes sweep the room and pin each person in place before moving on to the next. His hair is slicked back with just a hint of silver at the temples.

I try not to choke on my own spit. It’s him. The Penthouse Grump. My coffee victim. And unless my sleep deprivation has finally tipped into full-blown hallucination, he’s wearing an even more expensive suit today. I catch a glimpse of his Rolex as sweat rolls down my back.

He stalks to the head of the table, parking his lean frame in the chair with the kind of authority that makes everyone else fade into the background. The room goes even quieter. I realize with mounting horror that my coffee victim and the man I’ve been doing some serious lusting after is Gabriel Mercer, the Mercer Group CEO, my boss’s boss’s boss.

I want to sink into the floor, but instead, I clutch my pen so hard my knuckles ache.

He doesn’t look at me. Not even a flicker of recognition as he glances around the room, issuing a brisk, “Let’s get started.”

There’s a collective exhale as everyone shuffles their notes and the head of Finance launches into a mind-numbing recitation of gross margins and year-over-year growth. Normally, I’d be laser-focused, but all I can think about is the fact that I dumped coffee on the most powerful man in the building. The man who could have me fired, blacklisted, and exiled to a Siberian branch office before my next pay cycle.

My brain short-circuits, running all possible escape plans at once. Maybe if I slouch enough, he won’t see me. Or maybe I can slip out to the bathroom and hide until he goes away.

I hear my name. “Ms. Stone, are you with us?”

Oh, sweet mother of humiliation. He’s staring directly at me now, one eyebrow raised. Not smiling, but not exactly mad, either. The entire room is watching.

I scramble for a response. “Yes, sir. Just, um, pulling up the data sheet.”

.suddenly aware of his presence. The room feels too small, the air too thick. I risk a glance over my laptop and see him listening to the presentation, fingers steepled, eyes heavy-lidded but alert. He looks… bored? Maybe even amused.

I tell myself not to keep looking, but my eyes move on their own like some kind of embarrassing heat-seeking missile. He’s just… there. Way too powerful. Way too gorgeous. Way the heck out of my league.

My heart does this weak, traitorous thing every time his gaze sweeps the room. When his eyes land on me, I swear my skin literally buzzes. I’m hyper-aware of the way my blouse clings to my chest, the trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades, and the pulse that’s hammering in places that have no business being awake in a business meeting.

I shift in my seat, crossing my legs, pretending to focus on my notes. Liar. All I can think about is how his voice would sound.

I let out a tiny, silent sigh, hoping to get through this freaking day so I can go home and eat an entire tub of rocky road ice cream. I deserve it.

The meeting drags on, a blur of charts and acronyms. At some point, Mr. Mercer interrupts a heated debate between Operations and HR with a single, perfectly timed, “That’s enough.” The heads snap to attention. He doesn’t yell, doesn’t even raise his voice, but the whole room resets, instantly.

At the halfway mark, there’s a break for coffee and pastries. I practically teleport to the back of the room, determined to avoid another collision. But even with the food table as a buffer, I feel his gaze. Every time I glance up, he’s staring at me with an unreadable expression. I suddenly feel like a bug under a microscope.

I try to focus on my croissant, which promptly sheds flakes down the front of my skirt. Of course.

“Mind if I sit here?”

I look up to find Gabriel Mercer himself standing directly in front of me, plate in hand. My stomach dives to my toes.