POV Jocelyn

The reception desk looks like a crime scene.

Black ink bleeds across mahogany in accusatory pools. I’m crouched behind the disaster zone, salvaging quarterly reports that were supposed to be pristine presentations of corporate excellence, not abstract art projects.

The printer upstairs had a mechanical breakdown, and somehow I drew the short straw for cleanup duty.

Wet ink clings to everything—my hands, the papers, spreading across expensive wood like liquid evidence of my incompetence.

“Fantastic,” I mutter, attacking the mess with paper towels that prove as effective as thoughts and prayers.

The elevator dings. Designer heels strike marble with military precision, but I don’t look up—too focused on preventing these documents from becoming expensive toilet paper.

Something heavy slams onto the desk with deliberate force.

A white Chanel jacket lands directly on the wet ink papers with a splat that sounds like destiny laughing at my expense.

“Handle this,” commands a voice dripping with practiced superiority. “I’m late for lunch.”

I glance up to find perfection weaponized in designer armor.

Platinum hair twisted into mathematical precision, lips painted blood-red, diamonds catching light like scattered stars. She’s already pivoting away, dismissing me like hired furniture.

“Wait,” I call, rising slowly. The jacket absorbs ink like an expensive sponge. “Your jacket—”

“What about it?” She turns back, irritation carved into porcelain features.

I lift the Chanel’s corner, revealing black stains spreading across pristine white fabric like spilled secrets. “It landed on wet ink.”

Her expression detonates from mild annoyance to thermonuclear rage.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Her composure shatters like expensive crystal hitting concrete. “You ruined it!”

“I didn’t ruin anything. You threw it down—”

“Don’t you dare blame me for your incompetence!” Her voice climbs toward frequencies that could shatter crystals. “That jacket is worth more than your pathetic salary!”

The lobby transforms into a theater. Conversations die mid-syllable. Keyboards fall silent. Even the elevator seems to pause, listening.

“Look, I understand you’re upset—”

“Upset?” She advances like a predator scenting weakness. “This is designer couture! Do you have any concept of what you’ve destroyed?”

Heat floods my face. “I didn’t destroy anything. You didn’t even look before—”

“Fucking pathetic excuses!” Her laugh could strip paint. “Typical service-class mentality. Blame everyone else for your failures. You’ll be hearing from my dry cleaner. And probably my lawyer.”

Service-class.

The words hit like acid and something inside me snaps with audible finality.

“Service-class?” I step forward, matching her volume. “At least I work for my money instead of inheriting it from dead relatives.”

Gasps ripple through marble corridors. Several employees abandon all pretense of productivity, openly witnessing my professional execution.

Her face cycles through shock, disbelief, then pure hatred. “How dare you speak to me like that, you freak? Do you even know who I am?”

“Someone who thinks dry cleaning bills require legal representation?” The words pour out before rational thought can intervene. “Maybe try treating people with basic respect.”

“Miss Ashford, please—” Patricia materializes from shadows, face drained of color. “Let me handle—”

“Where is Zayden?” She whirls toward executive offices, scanning for authority. “This creature needs to be removed immediately!”

That’s when I realized who I’m facing. Ashford. Old New York money, the kind that comes with trust funds and expectations of being treated like royalty.

The name registers like a bullet finding its target.

“Are you fucking insane? It’s Vivienne Ashford,” Patricia whispers through her teeth, gripping my arm with steel fingers. “And you just declared war on nuclear power with Mr. Wolfe’s fiancée, idiot.”

The lobby floor seems to tilt beneath my feet. Professional suicide doesn’t cover this magnitude of catastrophe.

“I want her gone, Patricia. Immediately!” Vivienne’s voice reaches decibels that violate city noise ordinances.

“Miss Ashford, if we could just—” Patricia attempts damage control.

“No excuses! She destroyed my property then had the audacity to attack me personally!”

The confrontation reaches crescendo when Zayden’s office door opens with deliberate force.

He emerges into chaos with predatory calm, surveying the scene like a general assessing battlefield damage. His presence transforms the lobby atmosphere from circus to courtroom.

“What,” he says with lethal quiet, “is happening here?”

Vivienne pivots toward him, fury and vindication warring across perfect features.

“Zay, thank God. Your little assistant just destroyed my jacket and now she’s being completely insubordinate about it.”

“She threw her jacket on wet ink,” I interrupt, because apparently self-preservation isn’t my strong suit. “I tried to warn her.”

“It’s not just about the jacket,” Vivienne interjects, her voice taking on that practiced wounded tone. “It’s the attitude. The complete lack of respect. You can’t have employees treating your fiancée like—”

“Like what?” He steps closer to her, and something in his posture shifts.

Still controlled, but with an edge that makes everyone in earshot suddenly find their work absolutely fascinating.

Mr. Wolfe’s gaze moves between us with calculating precision, waiting for her answer.

“Like she’s nobody special.”

“Everyone’s nobody special when they’re screaming at my employees over accidents.”

The words land like ice water. Vivienne’s mouth opens and closes without sound. “Zay—”

“Ms. Hartwell,” he continued without breaking eye contact with his fiancée. “Send the damaged jacket to the cleaner. Company account. Bill it to executive expenses.”

“You don’t need to—” I start.

“It’s handled.” His tone suggests the conversation is over.

Vivienne looks like she might actually combust. “Are you seriously taking her side over mine?”

“I’m taking nobody’s side. I’m solving a problem.” He checks his watch with deliberate casualness. “Weren’t you leaving?”

The dismissal hits her like a slap. For a moment, I actually feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Fine,” she says, voice tight with barely controlled fury. “But we’re discussing this later. Privately.”

She grabs her purse with a ruined jacket and storms toward the elevator, leaving behind a cloud of designer perfume and wounded pride.

Silence blankets the office like fresh snow. Mr. Wolfe surveys the aftermath with those unreadable green eyes before focusing on me.

“Ms. Hartwell.”

“Sir?”

“Next time someone throws valuables on wet surfaces…” Something resembling amusement flickers across granite features. “Let physics teach its own lessons.”

He looks at me one more time and then disappears back into his office, leaving me standing among whispers and stares.

Patricia finally breaks the silence. “Well, that was entertaining.”

“Glad my career suicide could provide you with some amusement.”

But as I clean up the coffee remnants, I can’t shake the feeling that something just shifted. Some invisible line got crossed, and I have no idea what comes next.

Three hours later, I’m still processing when Landon appears at my desk with two cups of actual good coffee.

“Thought you might need this,” he says, settling into the chair across from me. “That was quite a show earlier.”

“Didn’t realize the entertainment came with the job description.”

He chuckles, but there’s something calculating behind it. “Vivienne Ashford doesn’t lose gracefully. And she definitely doesn’t forget.”

“Great. Something else to look forward to.”

“Just… be careful.” His expression turns serious. “Zayden defended you today, but she’s got connections, influence. Old money always does.”

I take a sip of coffee, letting the warmth ground me. “Why did he defend me?”

Landon studies me with those sharp lawyer eyes. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?“​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​