The morning after the coffee-on-the-carpet incident, Layla Bennett woke up half-convinced she'd dreamt the entire encounter.
But her inbox told another story.
Subject: Sterling Foundation Position Offer – Immediate Start
Mira shrieked loud enough over FaceTime to startle Layla's neighbor's cat off the fence. "You got the job?! After spilling coffee on a piano prince?! What kind of rom-com witchcraft is this?!"
Layla blinked at the email again, still in disbelief. "I honestly thought I'd be blacklisted from Mayfair forever. Who hires someone based on pure humiliation?"
"Maybe it's the tweed," Mira said seriously. "It's hypnotic. Or maybe he's into clumsy commoners."
Layla rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the grin. Adam Sterling. The name had been bouncing around her brain all night like a rogue melody she couldn't place. Cool. Composed. Intimidatingly perfect. And yet… oddly human. He hadn't called security. He hadn't scolded her. He'd laughed.
And now she had a job.
Sterling Foundation Headquarters was less intimidating the second time around—until she was led to the second floor and handed a printed schedule that included events like:
Lunch with the Viscount of Eddington
Gallery Preview: Sterling Family Patronage
Private Dinner – Sterling Conservatory (Formal Attire Required)
Layla stared at the page like it was written in Elvish.
"Don't worry," said a voice from behind her. "Only half of those involve ancient wines and silent judging."
She turned to find Yusuf Harrington, lounging in the corridor with a casual elegance that screamed old money. Tousled hair, loafers without socks, and the air of someone who had once been scolded by a duke for wearing sunglasses indoors.
"Yusuf. Harrington." He extended a hand and winked. "Friend of Adam. And soon to be your guide through the hilariously bizarre world you've just stumbled into."
"Layla Bennett. Accidental coffee assassin."
"Ah yes, the piano incident. You're already a legend."
Layla's first real challenge came that evening.
The Sterling Conservatory Dinner was a formal, high-society affair. Apparently, the family hosted monthly gatherings for donors, scholars, and a rotating cast of titled ghosts.
She wore her own design: a sleek navy jumpsuit with tartan trim and a dramatic open back, tailored to within an inch of its life. Sustainable, stylish, and absolutely not protocol.
But she refused to blend in.
She arrived on time, greeted the butlers with as much grace as her nerves allowed, and tried not to trip on the polished floors. The conservatory was lit like something from a fairytale—warm lighting, cascading greenery, string quartet tucked into a corner. People drifted about in tailored suits and dresses worth more than her student loans.
She had never seen so many pairs of cufflinks in her life.
Yusuf rescued her halfway through a conversation about tax-free art holdings.
"Come, meet someone," he whispered, dragging her across the room.
She expected a minor duke or maybe a lord with terrible teeth.
What she got was Sarah Ashcombe.
All blonde elegance and icy poise, Sarah wore a champagne silk gown that shimmered with every movement. She looked like she'd been carved from marble in a palace where smiling was optional.
"Sarah," Yusuf began with diplomatic cheer. "This is Layla Bennett. Our newest addition to the Foundation team."
Sarah's eyes flicked over Layla with the precision of a social scanner. "Ah, the assistant. You wore tartan." A smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Brave."
Layla smiled back, too brightly. "Thanks. You look like an expensive flute of Prosecco. In a good way."
Sarah blinked. Yusuf nearly choked on his champagne.
"Excuse me," Sarah murmured coolly. "I must say hello to Lady Catterwell."
Layla leaned toward Yusuf. "Did I just start a war?"
"Oh, you started something."
Later in the evening, while fiddling awkwardly with a canape that looked like a sea creature in pastry, she spotted him.
Adam Sterling.
Dressed in classic black tie, effortlessly magnetic. He moved through the crowd like he wasn't part of it—aloof but attentive. She saw people greet him with deference, with subtle bows of heads, with too many yeses.
He spotted her.
And walked straight over.
"I see you survived the Ashcombe encounter," he said softly.
"She threatened me with her eyebrows," Layla deadpanned.
Adam's lip twitched. "They are her most lethal weapon."
He studied her for a moment—too long.
"I like your jumpsuit," he said finally.
She blinked. "You… do?"
"It's bold. Unapologetic. Like you."
She flushed. "Well, you didn't say that when I spilled coffee on your five-thousand-pound rug."
"That rug was hideous. You did me a favor."
Silence stretched between them—but it was warm. Almost musical.
Then a string of notes from the quartet echoed through the conservatory, catching Layla's ear.
The melody was haunting. Familiar.
She tilted her head. "That song… I've heard that before."
Adam didn't answer.
She turned to him. "Where?"
He met her gaze. Still. Quiet. But his expression changed—just slightly.
"You must be imagining it."
But she wasn't.
She knew that piece. Not the song exactly, but the emotional DNA in it. She'd heard it—felt it—in that room yesterday. From his hands.
Adam Sterling wasn't just the heir to an empire.
He was the composer.
And he was hiding it.