Coffee had splattered my custom Italian leather.
I inhaled deeply, containing irritation with monumental effort.
“It’s fine,” I said curtly, already pulling out my phone. “Just keep your distance.”
She lifted her brows, surprised—unaccustomed to being treated that way—then smiled again like she’d decided my rudeness was entertaining.
“Wow,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Someone definitely woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.”
I ignored her and called my assistant. Busy signal. I tried again. Same result.
Internal lines were down—apparently the same outage that had trapped the elevator.
I exhaled, anger sharpening.
This morning was turning into a nightmare.
The woman watched me with that persistent smile, like she wasn’t even mildly worried. Finally, I shoved my phone back in my pocket and looked at her, hoping she would take the hint and be quiet.
Instead, she smiled wider and extended her hand with an enthusiasm bordering on absurd given our situation.
“Well, since we’re stuck together, we should probably introduce ourselves,” she said brightly. “I’m Valentina Muniz. I work in Communications.” Her gaze flicked to my shoes, and she grinned. “Although, with that look, I’m starting to think I might not work here much longer.”
I stared at her hand.
I refused to touch it.
And yet something about the way she smiled—unbothered, irreverent—forced a response out of me anyway.
“Enrico Ferrara.”
Her expression shifted. I watched the exact moment she recognized my last name.
Her eyes widened in genuine shock—for half a second.
Then she did something completely unexpected.
She laughed.
“Oh, fantastic,” she said through laughter. “I spilled coffee on the company president’s shoes. Great way to earn a promotion, Valentina. Congratulations.”
I looked at her in silent disbelief, trying to decide if she was insane or simply oblivious to the danger of provoking me.
But as I watched her laugh at herself with that contagious lightness, something disturbing happened:
The corner of my mouth threatened to lift.
A smile.
Completely inappropriate.
I crushed it instantly, jaw tightening, and turned back to the motionless elevator panel—more unsettled by her than by the malfunction.
The elevator shuddered and began moving upward slowly. Silence pressed in, broken only by the muffled sound of cables working.
I kept my eyes on the panel, counting seconds, measuring irritation. The faster I got out of this, the better.
My phone vibrated in my inner jacket pocket. As I pulled it out to check the message, the elevator slowed abruptly.
