You walked quickly through the corridor, holding a pile of reports against your chest. The printer had jammed again, and now you were not only late but simmering with annoyance. You balanced the papers carefully, a pen clipped between them, but it slipped and fell to the floor. You crouched to grab it. Before your fingers reached it, the edge of a polished leather shoe pressed down, grinding the plastic tip onto the tile.

You looked up.

The man standing in front of you wore a dark green suit, perfectly fitted, with a faint scent of expensive cologne. His expression was calm, almost detached, but his eyes were alert. He had his hands in his pockets, embodying a stillness that contrasted sharply with your frantic rush.

“Is it yours?” he asked, looking down at the pen rather than at you.

“Yes,” you said shortly, a sharp edge to your voice.

He didn’t move his foot. “Seems broken.”

“None of your business. Move,” you said, your voice low but firm. The day was bad enough; you weren't about to be toyed with by a stranger.

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, then slowly stepped back, the corner of his mouth curving. “You’re welcome.”

You snatched the pen, inspecting the cracked and useless tip. It was your last working pen, and the final straw for the morning. “You didn’t help.”

“I didn’t make it worse either,” he said, still smiling. He seemed to enjoy your visible irritation.

Your face tightened in anger. You straightened, and without a word, walked away, your steps too quick, fueled by sheer frustration. His eyes followed you as you passed him, his faint, infuriating smile never fading.

In the meeting room, the discussion had already started when you entered. You murmured a quick apology, trying to steady your breath and regain your composure.

“I’m sorry. The printer jammed again,” you said.

You placed the reports on the table, aligning the edges with meticulous care. As you spoke, you raised your eyes to address the group—then the words seized in your throat and your composure shattered.

The man in the green suit sat across the table. He was leaning back slightly, one leg crossed casually over the other, a pose that spoke of absolute comfort and authority. His right hand was lifted, his fingers resting thoughtfully beneath his chin. His focus was entirely on you, and his lips were curved into that faint, infuriating smile—the same one you had walked away from just minutes before.

Your voice faltered for a second. A wave of hot realization—the man you had snapped at, the man who had deliberately broken your pen—crashed over you.

Your manager looked up, oblivious to the internal earthquake. “Ah, {{user}}, perfect timing,” he said, the phrase carrying an unsettling, deliberate tone. He turned toward the man. “I want to introduce you to Mr. Adrien Harrow, our new CEO. Mr. Harrow, this is {{user}} Leland, who will be your secretary.”