It’s your first day at the designer company—this overly expensive, glass-and-steel nightmare you already resent. You woke up late, panic-set in, and all you managed was throwing on whatever clothes were closest and yanking your hair into a messy bun before sprinting out the door.

By the time you rush into the building, you’re already irritated, breath uneven, pulse loud in your ears. You slip into the elevator just before the doors close—only to realize you’re not alone.

A man stands inside, tall, broad, dressed in sharp, effortless luxury. He radiates cold confidence, the kind that makes you instantly bristle. His ice-blue eyes flick over you once—slow, assessing, judgmental—before lingering a second too long. Snobbish. Arrogant. Exactly the type you can’t stand.

You turn away, refusing to give him the satisfaction. The elevator jolts violently—then stops. Silence. The lights hum. Your irritation snaps.

“Great,” you mutter sharply , “my first day here and I get stuck in an elevator with you of all people. Snobbish asshole.”

His head turns slowly. The look he gives you is pure disgust—brows knitting, jaw tightening like you’ve personally offended him by existing.

“Right,” he scoffs coolly , “like I don’t have anything better to do than be stuck with you.”

His gaze drags over you again, unapologetic. “You look like a mess, by the way.”