There was a silence hanging over them so thick, Nina was pretty sure it could be bottled, labeled "existential dread," and sold in tiny overpriced jars at a hipster market in Brooklyn.
Nobody said a word. Not a single syllable. Just awkward glances, clenched jaws, and the type of emotional constipation that made her want to scream into a throw pillow. Or at the very least, hurl a decorative vase at someone's head—lovingly, of course.
So naturally, Nina laughed. Loud. And possibly a bit manic.
It was the kind of laugh that started deep in her belly and spilled out like she'd just remembered the funniest joke on earth—or had officially lost her grip on reality. Jury was still out.
Paul, who always followed her emotional chaos like a loyal golden retriever, joined in. His laugh was that confusing hybrid of amused and alarmed, like he wasn't sure if they were in the middle of a comedy or a crime scene.
And then the domino effect began.
Within seconds, the whole group was laughing. At absolutely nothing. And everything. All at once.
"Wait—wait, hold up," gasped Paul's friend through choked giggles. "Can someone explain why we're laughing? Because I've officially lost the plot."
"You pervert," Paul shot back, still chuckling. "Why do you always ask the right questions at the absolute worst time? Oh, I just had epiphany, it's your annoying talent. Hahaha."
"I'm sorry," Nina chimed in dramatically, already reaching for Danica's wrist. "We need a moment. Girl emergency."
Translation: Escape plan activated.
As she and Danica made their very obvious exit, Alfred's eyes trailed after them, but Nina couldn't tell if he was tracking Danica or plotting a murder. Either way, the vibes were... intense.
"I need to make a call," Alfred said suddenly, his voice stiff enough to starch a shirt. H was already pulling out his phone in that totally subtle way that screamed fake emergency. He gave Paul a not-so-sly nod that might as well have come with subtitles.
Paul caught the cue with the enthusiasm of a man who desperately wanted to disappear. "Yeah… I suddenly remember I, too, have a deeply urgent, very mysterious, completely fabricated phone call to make." He said it with a straight face but ruined it with a dramatic wink.
And just like that, they vanished like rats deserting a sinking ship full of emotional chaos.
Now it was just Sean and Paul's friend. Two men. One awkward silence. Endless possibilities for discomfort.
Sean raised a brow, folding his arms like the judgmental older sibling of the group. "So… any important calls you also forgot you had to make?"
Paul's friend blinked, still half-lost in the whirlwind. "W-what?"
Sean sighed. "Never mind. You're doing amazing."
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BUILDING
Danica clutched her glass like it had personally betrayed her and stared at the crowd as if they were a glitch in the Matrix. "I felt like a potato in a fruit salad among them," she muttered, , her eyes flitting over the fancy crowd with the kind of quiet horror usually reserved for midterms and dental drills. "Thanks for dragging me here."
Nina snorted, swirling her drink like she was auditioning for a villain role. "Oh, honey, I was right there with you. The energy in that room? Absolutely sponsored by Botox and passive aggression. But now that we've escaped the land of judgmental stares and overpriced canapés…" She raised a brow. "What's next?"
Danica blinked. "Next?"
Nina's eyes glinted with the kind of mischief usually reserved for breaking laws or hearts. "Yeah. What about that certified egomaniac—Sean? How are we making him pay? Because revenge calories don't count."
Danica exhaled sharply, her voice tightening. "He was my first love, you know? My literal swoon-inducing, butterflies-everywhere, diary-worthy first love. And apparently, my first real taste of betrayal." Her voice lowered, the words sharp. "He made me feel like a queen in public and like I was discount furniture behind closed doors. When it ended, I realized he didn't love me. He tolerated me. And humiliated me with a smile. I didn't realize it back then, but every single 'compliment' came wrapped in a passive insult. And when it ended, I finally saw it—the way he looked at me like I was beneath him. Disposable."
Her eyes darkened, practically flashing 'Crush Him' in neon. "So now, I'm going to return the favor. With interest."
Nina grinned. "Oooh, vengeance. Served hot. My favorite."
Danica's grip on her glass tightened until—crack—it shattered, sending a few shards and droplets flying. She didn't even flinch. "Do you know what he said to me once? 'You don't have anything going for you except your looks.'" Her jaw clenched. "Like I was some glittery handbag with no receipts."
Nina stayed silent. She knew the therapy session was in progress and interrupting would be emotional arson. Let the anger flow, baby.
Danica stood, pacing now, her energy buzzing like an untamed storm. "Well, guess what? I do have something going for me. I'll show him. I have everything now. The career, the money, the reputation—hell, I even have a signature coffee order. I've made it. And—"
"And what?" Nina asked softly.
Danica hesitated, blinking through the whirlwind in her head. "I don't have a boyfriend." The words came out like a confession, slightly horrified. "If I did, someone actually worthy of me—God, imagine the look on Sean's face."
"Oh, please." Nina rolled her eyes so hard they practically did a somersault. "You don't need a man to prove your worth. You're a full-course meal, babe, and he's not even a complimentary breadstick. Besides, unless Amazon has started selling emotionally available hotties with fake relationship experience, we're outta luck, babe."
Danica deadpanned, then sighed. "Fine. But maybe I don't need a real boyfriend."
Nina squinted. "What do you mean 'real'?"
"I mean… I could pretend to have one."
Nina blinked. Once. Twice. Then pinched herself. "Okay, am I hallucinating or did you just say pretend? Like, fake love? As in, you—the queen of high standards and zero tolerance for clinginess—want to fake date someone?"
Danica only nodded, deep in thought, mentally scrolling through a catalog of eligible men who could be manipulated—er, convinced—to play the part. Then her eyes widened, like she'd just remembered where she hid her emergency chocolate stash.
"Alfred," she whispered, more to herself than to Nina. "He could be the one."
Nina's jaw dropped so fast she probably dislocated something. "I—what? Alfred? As in CEO of 'I don't do feelings' Alfred? Yeah, he's hot enough to melt steel and rich enough to buy a small planet, but do you seriously think he'll go along with this? He's not exactly…Hallmark—"
Danica's smirk could've launched ships. "I know what I'm doing. He's reasonable—charmingly intimidating, sure—but I've had enough conversations with him to know he's not completely allergic to fun."
"Your definition of fun and mine are very different," Nina muttered.
Danica shrugged, her voice low but filled with enough conviction to power a rocket. "I'll talk to him tomorrow. Let's see what happens."
Nina exhaled deeply, shaking her head. "I swear, if he agrees, I'll start believing in miracles. Or witchcraft. Honestly, I'm not picky."
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BUILDING
"Hey, Alfo!" Paul called out, flashing a smile that was one part charming, two parts desperate. The kind of smile you give when you've stepped into the lion's den wearing steak cologne.
Alfred raised an eyebrow, his posture pure annoyance wrapped in a designer blazer. "What in the name of overpriced lattes are you doing here?" His eyes narrowed like he was already regretting asking. "Why are you working here as a manager? Did the circus kick you out, or is this your new undercover clown gig?"
Paul's grin twitched, then collapsed like a cheap folding chair. He couldn't exactly admit the truth—not unless he wanted his plan to implode faster than his last relationship.
"Look, I'm not her manager," he began, his voice rich with the kind of confidence that screams liar. "I'm here for... business purposes. Yes, very corporate, very spreadsheet-y—"
Alfred didn't need a degree in body language to know Paul was weaving a yarn thicker than grandma's winter scarves. His patience ran out right on cue.
With zero warning, he slammed Paul against the wall with the kind of ease that suggested gym membership and unresolved rage issues. He twisted Paul's arm just enough to make him squeal, but not enough for assault charges. Yet.
"YAAAHHH—OKAY, OW!" Paul screeched, every syllable laced with outrage and sudden humility. "Hands off the merchandise, you psychopath!"
Alfred leaned in close, his breath suspiciously minty. "You're full of crap and I know it. Start talking, or I'm texting Danica your entire résumé—including the embarrassing parts."
Paul, fueled by pain and a fragile male ego, shoved Alfred off with surprising strength, slamming him against the opposite wall and grabbing his collar like he suddenly remembered how testosterone works.
"Fine!" he barked. "You want the truth? I'm here to win Danica's heart. She's mine. Mine, Alfo."
Alfred, never one to be out-dramatized, casually smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt and tossed Paul a look as if he'd just stepped in something gross.
"Diamonds," he began, his voice dripping with poetic disdain, "are beautiful, admired, and lusted after. But what really matters is—who does the diamond sparkle for?"
Paul blinked. "W–what are you even saying?"
This guy is a philosopher now? Great. I've been body-slammed by a guy who quotes metaphors like he's auditioning for a perfume commercial. Paul grumbled internally, gripping his arm like it owed him an apology.
Alfred stepped in close, gaze unreadable. "Every guy in this building is dreaming about Danica like she's some prize on a dating show. But it's not about who wants her, genius. It's about who she wants. And last I checked, you don't get to vote more than once."
Paul scowled, cradling his arm like a wounded Victorian damsel. Internally, he screamed: This dude's built like a Marvel villain. Did he just snap my arm? Is this how I die? At a networking event?!
"She'll choose me," Paul snapped back, full of injured pride and overcompensation.
Alfred smirked, the kind of smirk that had broken hearts and started bar fights. "Let's see if your ego can back that up."
He turned to leave, casually brushing invisible dust from his shoulder like the scene hadn't just turned into a low-budget action movie. But Paul wasn't done.
"Wait!" he called out, softer now, desperate. "Please don't say anything to Danica. Not yet. Not like this. For the sake of our friendship… if we ever had one."
Alfred paused, turning just enough to shoot him a look over his shoulder. "Fine. I won't say a word." He paused. "But only because I'm curious how badly you'll mess this up."
And then he walked away—like a runway model with a grudge.
Paul stared after him, teeth clenched, chest heaving.
Why does this guy smell so good? Like expensive cologne and crushed hopes. Focus, Paul. You're not here to admire your competition. You're here to win. He thought bitingly.
He ran a hand through his hair, striking a pose like anyone was watching. "I'm the best," he muttered to himself, trying to believe it.
The function ended in a flurry of fake smiles, empty champagne glasses, and uncomfortable small talk. Everyone drifted off into the night, oblivious to the romantic war brewing just beneath their noses.
NEXT DAY, CR COMPANY
[ Conference Room ]
Danica's team, the kind who wore matching navy blazers like they were auditioning for a synchronized smugness competition, occupied the left side of the table. Alfred's team, equally overdressed but somehow less annoying about it, took the right. The conference room was a battlefield of smiles too wide and coffee cups too full, all waiting for the same thing: Queen Danica's grand entrance.
"Why is she always late?" Paul's friend whispered, already checking his watch as if he had a train to catch and not a one-hour slideshow ahead of him.
"Fashionably late. Emphasis on the fashion. And the late," Paul muttered. "Must be exhausting being the main character every day."
Cue the double doors swinging open.
Danica didn't just enter a room—she arrived. This time, her flair level was turned up to eleven, and the credit for that went to one sad, self-loathing little man named Sean. He was already doing the emotional equivalent of crawling under the table. Working for your wildly more successful ex while she looked like that? Tragic.
Danica glided in as if she'd been born in stilettos and bathed in superiority. She took the empty seat beside Alfred with the grace of a woman who absolutely knew Paul would wince at the choice—and oh, did he.
Alfred gave a brief nod toward the guy by the projector, who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. The slideshow began with a soft click. No one exploded. No one cried. The conference went... disturbingly well.
When it ended, Danica stood. Alfred followed. Because of course he did. As they moved toward the exit, the entire room rose like it was a royal send-off. Even Sean, whose pride was already bleeding out on the beige carpet, forced himself upright. Respect wasn't optional when your ex could fire you with a smile.
Danica caught sight of him standing—so gallantly, so bitterly—and smirked. A small, satisfied twitch of the lips that screamed: I see you, loser. Then she swept out. Alfred saw the smirk too but wisely decided to pretend he hadn't. He was learning.
The room collectively exhaled, as if they'd all been holding their breath for the drama to strike—and it hadn't. Yet.
Danica had hoped to corner Alfred after the meeting, but fate—or more accurately, corporate chaos—intervened. Emails. Calls. The existential dread of unpaid overtime. Half the day blurred by in a fog of meetings and mediocre coffee.
Heading toward her office, she spotted Alfred in conversation with one of his employees... just outside the men's restroom. Because nothing says "professional rendezvous" like urinal adjacency. She made a beeline for him.
"You can leave now," Alfred said to the poor guy, without even glancing at him. The man vanished faster than a free donut in a break room.
Now that it was just the two of them, Alfred's eyes zeroed in on Danica like she was the only real thing in a sea of corporate buzzwords and bullshit slides. The air shifted. Tension curled around them like a secret.
Danica glanced away, lashes lowering to mask the flicker of unease beneath her perfectly arched brow. She wasn't flustered. Please. Her cheeks were just... warm. From the walk. Obviously.
Meanwhile, Alfred looked like he was seconds from losing a war with himself. Whatever internal restraint he was clinging to? It was slipping fast. And hard. He was trying—God, he was trying—not to fall at her Louboutin-covered feet like some tragic poetic simp, but spoiler alert: the man was already gone. Completely, irreversibly, sickeningly gone.
Danica opened her mouth, ready to deliver her carefully crafted pitch—and then the universe, in all its chaotic glory, decided to drop Sean and Paul into the mix like two human plot twists she hadn't asked for. They were headed her way, all slow-mo and lost puppy vibes, and she could practically hear the dramatic movie trailer music in her head.
Her brain clicked into overdrive: Do it. Just do it. Make him squirm. Make him regret every boring Wednesday night he spent watching car shows instead of being good to you.
But there was one small obstacle: Alfred was tall. Like, gravity-defying tall. Like, should've come with a warning label and a step ladder kind of tall.
Whatever. I've faced worse. I own stilettos for a reason.
She reached up, fingers sliding against the sharp line of his jaw. "I'm going to kiss you," she said, no warning, no soft lead-in. Just a bold declaration served straight.
Alfred's eyes widened, lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile.
"I'm sorry, I have to do this," she added, tossing in a sigh that would've made a soap opera actress proud.
You better follow my lead, Romeo. She mused.
Oh babe, lead all you want. I'm right behind you. He thought, still annoyingly adorable.
Danica didn't let herself hesitate. She rose onto her toes and tugged his face down toward hers.
Except—minor glitch. Her mind blanked.
Wait. How do you do this again? Is it tilt head, then lips? Or lips first? Oh no. I don't know how to kiss. I've forgotten everything.
Alfred noticed immediately. Of course he did. So, the gentleman that he was, instead of laughing or pulling away, he cupped her face as if she was something breakable and rare. His lips brushed hers—slow, sure, patient.
It wasn't just a kiss. It was a promise wrapped in heat, saying: Breathe. I've got you.
Danica's breath hitched.
The kiss started as something calculated—a move, a show, a carefully staged moment meant to get under someone else's skin. But that illusion shattered the second Alfred tilted his head and deepened the contact. Heat surged through her in waves. This wasn't a kiss. This was a detonation.
His hands—big, steady, warm—slid from her face to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a reverence that made her knees wobble. Her body melted against his instinctively, her hands bracing against his chest as her lips parted.
Alfred didn't hesitate. His mouth moved against hers, slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world and he wanted to savor every goddamn second.
His tongue brushed hers.
A shock ran through her like lightning.
Danica whimpered—whimpered, for God's sake—and gripped the front of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
He kissed like he fought—controlled, intense, devastating. And somewhere in the back of her rapidly disintegrating brain, she realized he was holding back.
Barely.
His fingers tightened slightly in her hair, anchoring her, and when he kissed her again—deeper, rougher—she forgot why she'd started this in the first place. The charade. The revenge. The men watching. None of it mattered now. Not with the way Alfred was tasting her like he'd been dying to do it for years.
He pulled back half an inch, just enough for their breath to mingle.
And over here, Sean and Paul froze mid-step like their brains had blue-screened.
What the actual f— Paul thought, eyes wide. Three years. Three damn years and she never kissed me. This dude shows up and it's make-out central on Day Two? God, just smite me now.
Sean, meanwhile, seriously considered quitting. Life. Job. Breathing.
Paul glanced at his watch, cleared his throat theatrically. "Okay, stop. Please. It's been three minutes. Have mercy. Some of us still believe in PG-rated corporate spaces."
Sean stared. Emotionally concussed. I need to leave. I need therapy. I need a drink.
Alfred ended the kiss, still holding Danica's face gently like she might vanish. He looked happy—radiant, even. Like a man who just got upgraded to first class in the romance department.
Danica tried to compose herself. Her face, however, was a traitor. Her blush made her cheeks look like she'd spent ten minutes under a space heater. Alfred noticed. Obviously.
She turned away, trying to gather herself, then spotted the human statues still watching.
"Oh, Mr. Paul," she said sweetly, as if she hadn't just rocked their universe.
Alfred followed her gaze. Sean and Paul, both still standing there, mouths open like they'd just watched a live episode of a steamy soap.
"What's wrong, Sean?" Alfred asked casually, hands in his pockets like this was just another Tuesday.
Paul blinked, rebooted.
"Why did we come here again?" Sean muttered, dazed.
"To show them the product update... thing?" Paul offered, trying to salvage his dignity.
Paul. Sweetheart. Gold star for memory retention. Sean remarked internally.
Danica and Alfred exchanged a look.
"We're coming," they said in unison, far too in sync for comfort.
As Sean and Paul drifted out one by one, Danica stayed rooted to the floor, her arms crossed in silent defiance. Alfred didn't move either.
Of course he did. That damn smile still played on his lips—lazy, knowing, deliciously dangerous.
God, why does he have to smile like that? Like he already knows how this ends—me, undone.
The tilt of his lips was infuriatingly gentle, as if he'd just watched her commit arson and somehow found it charming. It was the kind of smile that wrapped itself around your ribs and squeezed before you could decide whether it felt like affection or a warning.
"Wipe that stupid look off your face," she snapped, her voice sharpened to a blade's edge, but the delivery cracked under the weight of something softer—something she refused to name.
His gaze drifted—slow and deliberate—from her eyes to her mouth, then back again. "I smile when I like what I see."
"I only did that because…" She trailed off, swallowing down the flicker of regret clawing at her throat.
"Because?" he prompted, his voice velvet and heat, eyes glinting like secrets whispered in the dark. It was unfair, really, how he made everything sound like a promise.
Danica rolled her eyes, every muscle in her body tightening as if she was bracing for war. "I wanted to make someone feel like shit. Left out. Unimportant. That's all."
He raised a brow. "Who?"
"You don't need to know." Her voice turned brittle, the words like shards she threw just to keep him from getting too close.
Alfred's grin didn't falter. "Temporary boyfriend. Got it."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't mock me."
"I'm not." His voice dipped, rougher now, like gravel and velvet had decided to flirt. He stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off his skin. "I'll play whatever role you want, Danica. Lover, enemy, temporary mistake."
His gaze flicked to her mouth and stayed there, lingering like a touch he hadn't yet dared to claim.
"But just know," he said, voice low and rough-edged, "I don't do pretend very well."
He paused—intentionally. It wasn't hesitation. It was control.
The next words were right there, simmering beneath the surface, hot and reckless and real. She could feel them radiating off him like heat from a fire.
"Especially not when it comes to—"
He stopped. On purpose. Held it back.
As if the confession was a loaded weapon and he was choosing—for now—not to pull the trigger.
Instead, he swallowed it. Jaw tight. Eyes burning.
The way he said her name—low, steady, almost reverent—made her skin prickle. She hated it. Hated how her heartbeat stuttered, how the air suddenly felt too heavy, how she couldn't meet his gaze without feeling like she was already losing a game she didn't remember agreeing to play.
She turned away before her face betrayed her, but it was too late. The heat had already crawled up her neck.
Why does he have to be so sweet? He's ruining my villain era.
And worse—she was starting to wonder if she even wanted to be the villain anymore.