The scent of roasted beans and burnt caramel lingered in the air of Luma Café, Stacy Holloway's favorite spot—a minimalist coffee haven hidden in the heart of the city.
She'd just gotten back from Paris, and this was the first stop before heading to the office—a little familiar comfort to start the day. The line was moving pretty slow, but Stacy didn't even need to wait.
As soon as she stepped inside, heads turned. People admired her effortless beauty and sharp confidence—the kind that didn't just turn heads, it paused conversations. With a polite nod to the manager who greeted her by name, Stacy bypassed the long line and made her way straight to the counter.
A few spots ahead, Zoe Rivera adjusted the cuff of her crisp white blouse, the sharp lines of her tailored blazer framing her confident posture. Her polished leather shoes tapped softly as she typed a quick Slack message to her team. She wasn't flashy, but there was a quiet assurance in her presence—someone who knew her role, leading the design and strategy team, juggling tight deadlines and the relentless demands of her boss. This coffee shop was her brief refuge before the day's chaos resumed.
Zoe's order was already in, with "Stacy" written on the cup. Because her real name meant extra explaining, and her boss's name always got the best service. Zoe had discovered this trick months ago and used it without guilt.
The coffee was brewing at a maddeningly slow pace—far too slow for Stacy Holloway. She glanced impatiently at her gleaming Cartier watch, her heels clicking sharply against the floor with every restless shift of her weight. She stood there, sharp and confident as always—crisp blazer, perfectly done nails, and bold red lipstick that made a statement.
"Latte for Stacy!" the barista called.
Both women stepped forward.
Both reached for the same cup.
Their fingers brushed.
They froze.
Zoe blinked, eyes narrowing at the tall, sharply dressed woman beside her. "You're Stacy?"
The woman raised a brow. "You don't look like one."
Zoe scoffed. "That's funny. I am one."
"Really?" the woman asked, tone cool. "Because I'm Stacy. And that's my latte."
Zoe crossed her arms. "Double-shot oat milk with cinnamon foam?"
A beat. Then: "Obviously."
"Right. My order," Zoe said, her grip on the cup tightening.
Stacy's lip twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "You really think you can keep it?"
Zoe took a step back, lifted the cup, and took a sip. "Looks like I already did."
Silence.
Then Stacy laughed, the sharp edge softening just a touch. "You're either very brave or very stupid."
Zoe smirked, nerves settling. "Guess you'll have to find out."
They exchanged a final glance—sharp, curious, like two challengers sizing each other up.
Zoe lifted the cup, took a slow sip, then turned and walked out of the coffee shop without looking back. The bell above the door chimed behind her.
Stacy stood there for a moment, the warmth of the café around her, when she heard the barista call out again, "Latte for Stacy!"
A faint smile tugged at her lips. Amused by the boldness of the woman who'd just walked away with her coffee, she shook her head lightly.
"Well," Stacy murmured to herself, "that was... unexpected."
She took a deep breath, then picked up her own cup, savoring the quiet hum of the café as the door closed behind Zoe.
**MEET THE BOSS**
At the office, Zoe's thoughts kept drifting back to the woman from the coffee shop—an unforgettable storm of style and attitude she couldn't shake.
Well. "Woman" was a soft word. She was more like an event—a fashion hurricane with legs and smirking red lips.
Zoe replayed the latte standoff all day. The voice. The smug amusement. That laugh.
She never even got her actual coffee, just chugged drip from the office kitchen like a peasant.
Now, she sat in the quiet hum of their private office, clutching a half-dead stylus and refreshing her inbox every few seconds.
Just then, Jenny, her team member, walked to her desk with a mischievous grin.
"Zoe, big news," she said, lowering her voice as she stepped in. "Ms. Stacy Holloway is back from Paris. She's in the building and will be coming to work today."
Zoe's breath hitched. "Already got the email," she said quietly, eyes flicking to the blinking cursor on her screen.
She barely even knew what Stacy looked like. When Zoe was hired, Stacy had already been in Paris for months. They'd never met in person—only heard stories, vague pictures floating through emails and whispered office gossip.
Jenny sat down on the edge of Zoe's desk, her tone conspiratorial. "You know, I never saw her in person before either—she's been away so long. But the grapevine's loud and clear: she's smoking hot. Like, seriously, the kind of woman who turns heads just walking down the hall. And get this— she's been single for years. Officially into women, maybe this is your chance to get closer. You know, make a move."
Zoe blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion. A flush rose to her cheeks. "Thanks for the tip, Jenny."
Jenny winked. "Just saying. Could be worth a shot."
Zoe forced a smile but couldn't shake the nervous flutter that had nothing to do with work.
Her phone buzzed with the manager's email:
"Heads up. Ms. Holloway's back from Paris. First all-staff in 10 mins. Yes, the Ms. Holloway."
The woman behind the name on her paycheck. The reason she pretended to be "Stacy" at coffee shops. The legend.
Ten minutes later, the sharp, rhythmic click of heels sliced through the quiet hallway like a warning. The door swung open, and Stacy Holloway stepped into the private office suite—power and elegance poured into human form. Silk whispered with every movement; confidence clung to her like perfume.
Zoe's breath caught so violently she almost choked.
Because it was her.
That smirk—sharp enough to cut glass.
That voice—smooth, deliberate, unforgettable.
Those tailored sleeves—precise, immaculate, unmistakable
Heat rushed to Zoe's face as the impossible truth snapped into place
She had stolen the coffee from her boss.
Their eyes collided. Time fractured.
Stacy's expression flickered—just for a heartbeat—something startled, electric, breaking through the armor.
Then, like a curtain snapping shut, the smirk slid back into place. Controlled. Knowing. Dangerous.
Stacy turned to the gathered team, voice smooth as espresso:
"Good morning. I'm Stacy Holloway. Some of you know me. Some of you pretend to."
Her gaze settled deliberately on Zoe.
Zoe sank an inch lower in her chair.
"I'm very interested in learning more about how this team runs things in my absence," Stacy continued. "Especially... identity management."
Another pointed glance
Zoe looked down, feeling utterly exposed. Dead. She was already dead.
Stacy stepped out of the conference room, her heels striking sharply against the floor. Mark the General Manager hurried to catch up, matching her brisk pace.
She glanced back, eyes narrowing. "Who's that woman in the white blouse and blazer? The one who stared at me like I was some ghost from the past?"
Mark's smile was tight, almost amused. "Zoe Rivera. Head of Design and Strategy team. Smart. Ambitious. Unpredictable."
Stacy's brow furrowed as she folded her arms, voice low and hard. "Unpredictable can be dangerous. I'll be watching her closely."
Mark's chuckle was dry. "She's got fire—enough to burn down walls or light the way."
Stacy's eyes locked ahead, cold and calculating. "Good. Let's see if she's ready for the storm—or if she's going to get swept away by it."