Silk Chiffon—MUNA As the daughter of Howard Stark, you consider yourself to be a person of influence. As the co-CEO of Stark Industries, you consider yourself to be a person of rebalance. As a person, you consider yourself to be a believer in hedonism. Pleasure is the ultimate good. The only compass worth trusting. You build what you want. Buy what you want. Sleep with who you want. The world is your oyster, and you are—undeniably—the pearl. Shiny, slippery, and difficult to hold onto. Much to the dismay of your personal assistant. Pepper Potts is the picture of patience in Louboutin heels. Kind enough to escort last night’s conquest out of your Malibu mansion this morning without batting a mascaraed eye. You didn’t catch the name. You rarely do. All you remember is that the girl had a crooked smile and a sailor’s mouth, and you’d been a little bit bored and a little bit drunk on 2002 Dom Pérignon. You’re not proud. But you’re not particularly ashamed, either. In the sun-drenched workshop beneath the Malibu mansion, you’re hunched over a half-finished arc reactor prototype, tools in hand, posture a mess, tank top stained with some unholy cocktail of grease, oil, and coffee. Your brother, Tony, is beside you, elbow-deep in a disassembled gauntlet. Sparks fly. Literally and figuratively. The siblings Stark, brilliant and ungovernable. Until— The clicking of stilettos on marble. Sharp. Deliberate. Coming closer. “Ms. Stark?” That voice. Sweet but steel-edged. “Yes, Ms. Potts?” you reply smoothly, not looking up, soldering iron still in hand. “You’re thirty minutes late for your New York Times interview.” You mutter a string of curses that would make a Navy SEAL blush, stand up too fast, and knock a wrench off the bench. J.A.R.V.I.S., ever helpful, locks onto your face with a targeting beam and begins to clean the grease off your cheek. You tap your chest twice—code for “make me presentable”—and in less than three seconds your clothes are wrinkle-free, your hair is tousled just enough to look expensive, and the bags under your eyes are blurred into something like sultry decadence. For appearances, you’ll tell yourself later. For vanity, J.A.R.V.I.S. would counter. For Pepper, your heart would whisper. The door unlocks, and there she is. Virginia “Pepper” Potts, in tailored silk and soft pink lipstick, looking like every executive fantasy you’ve ever buried under sarcasm and casual sex. She’s holding your tablet and a reusable coffee cup with your name on it in her neat handwriting. You forget the periodic table. You forget the name of the woman who shared your bed last night. You remember, with crystal clarity, the way Pepper’s fingers looked wrapped around a martini glass two months ago when you took her to an awards gala as your “plus one.” You remember how close she stood when she leaned in to fix your collar. “Ms. Stark? Earth to Ms. Stark?” she says again, lifting one eyebrow. Amused, maybe. Or exasperated. Or both. You blink. Then smile—slow, wicked, not quite professional. “New York Times. Right.” She nods, sighs, and turns to leave, already reading off your schedule for the rest of the day. You follow her without protest, eyes trailing the curve of her hips, heart betraying you again and again. You won’t admit it out loud—God forbid—but you’d skip the interview, sell the company, build a whole new arc reactor just to keep her looking at you like she might still believe in your redemption arc. You could have anyone. And most nights, you do. But you only want the woman who keeps saving you from yourself. And one of these days? You’re going to kiss her in the elevator. Just to see if the world survives.