Elena's POV
You ever have one of those days where everything seems to go wrong, no matter how hard you try?
That was me — on my first real test in Adrian Knight's world.
It started with the coffee.
Or maybe it started with my shaking hands.
I'd spent half the morning double-checking reports, printing contracts, and trying not to look directly at him when he passed my desk — which, by the way, he did like a ghost. No footsteps. No sound. Just a sudden, quiet presence that made the air feel heavier.
I remember thinking, Don't mess this up, Elena.
But of course, I did.
I was supposed to bring him his coffee — black, no sugar, exactly 178 degrees Fahrenheit (yes, he once mentioned the temperature). I balanced it carefully with one hand, the files for the upcoming investor meeting in the other.
I was doing fine.
Until he turned around.
I didn't see him coming. One moment, he was at his desk; the next, he was standing right in front of me. I froze. My heart jumped — and the cup tilted.
Time slowed.
Hot coffee spilled across the pristine file on his desk, spreading like liquid guilt.
"Oh my God—" I gasped, panicking. "I'm so sorry— I—"
I grabbed tissues, trying to soak it up, but my hands were shaking so badly I only made it worse. My throat tightened. My chest burned.
This was it.
I was going to be fired.
He'd warned me before — No mistakes. And this wasn't a small one.
I didn't even dare look up. "Please, Mr. Knight, I'll reprint everything right away— I'll—"
"Stop."
The word was quiet, but it froze me instantly.
I looked up.
He wasn't angry. Not exactly. His brows were drawn, yes, but his eyes — those cold grey eyes — weren't sharp. They were calm. Controlled.
Without a word, he took the tissue from my trembling hand and crouched slightly, wiping the corner of the desk himself.
I stood there, stunned.
A billionaire CEO, cleaning up a coffee spill.
"I— I should—"
"Relax, Miss Brooks." His voice was low. "It's just paper. Not the end of the world."
That was the first time he'd ever said my name softly.
Relax.
It shouldn't have meant anything, but it did.
I knelt beside him, helping blot the coffee. My hand brushed his — just a fleeting second — and it was like touching electricity.
The air shifted.
The world shrank to that single point of contact.
His fingers stilled. He looked at me.
And I looked back.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The silence between us wasn't awkward. It was alive.
His gaze dropped briefly to where our hands almost touched again. When he spoke, his voice had lost its edge.
"You're shaking again," he murmured.
I swallowed hard. "I thought you'd… be angry."
He straightened slowly, towering over me but not in a threatening way. More like he was trying to figure something out — something about me.
"I don't waste anger on accidents," he said quietly. "Especially not when someone's already punishing themselves enough."
My breath caught. Because… he was right.
I was.
He handed me a fresh file from his drawer — a backup copy, perfectly dry.
"Print another set when you can," he said. "And next time…"
His lips curved slightly — not quite a smile, but something close.
"Look where you're walking."
That tiny flicker of humor undid me more than all his scolding ever could.
As he turned away, I caught sight of a faint stain of coffee on the edge of his sleeve. I opened my mouth to point it out, but stopped. He already knew. He just didn't care.
I stood there for a long moment after he walked back to his desk, still feeling the warmth where his hand had brushed mine.
That was the first time I saw something different in him.
Not the ruthless perfectionist everyone feared. Not the man who lived by rules and precision.
But the man beneath it all — the one who noticed when my hands trembled, who cleaned up a mess without a word of blame, who looked at me like he couldn't quite figure out why I affected him.
That's when it happened — the spark.
Small. Quiet. Dangerous.
The kind that doesn't burn right away…
but promises it will.
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