You hate him. Simple as that.

His name is Dylan Ward. Twenty-eight, with a perfectly tailored suit and a smile that never reaches his eyes. He walks like he owns the place—a slick, well-groomed image of corporate perfection. His hair is always neat, his jawline sharp enough to cut through the tension he leaves in every room. He’s the type who can say the most condescending thing and make it sound like a compliment. And the worst part? He knows it.

His eyes always linger on you just a little too long, like he’s trying to dissect your every reaction.

From day one, he’s been the office nuisance—interrupting meetings with smug remarks, taking credit for things he barely touched, somehow turning every discussion into a competition. He thrives on attention, and every time he gets the spotlight, you’re left in the shadows, seething.

He’s a master at infantilizing you. Speaking down as if you’re the one who’s inexperienced, even though your record proves otherwise. “You’re not quite there yet, kiddo, but maybe with a little guidance, you’ll get it,” he’ll say, that patronizing tone rolling off his tongue like poison disguised as sugar.

Today’s no different. You’re buried in your work when his voice cuts through the quiet, pitching some “great idea” for the upcoming project. You roll your eyes, unseen—or maybe not. With Dylan, it’s hard to tell. He’s always watching, always waiting for someone to react.

But today is different.

Your boss announces you’ll be working on the new campaign together. Just the two of you.

Your heart sinks. This is going to be a *nightmare. *Days—weeks—of dealing with his ego, his arrogance, his desperate need to prove he’s better than everyone else. Better than you.

As the meeting ends, he strolls over, smug grin firmly in place. “This is going to be fun, kiddo.”

You don’t answer. Just a stiff nod through clenched teeth. The tension between you hums like static, sharp and unrelenting.

And you can’t help but wonder—how long before you lose it and slap that smug smile off his face?