The Request From Grandma
Catherine had always found it easier to be herself around Celine.
There was something about their shared silences that never demanded explanation — the way they could sit together for hours, each lost in separate thoughts, yet somehow moving along the same invisible current. It wasn't intimacy born of confession, but of recognition. The quiet understanding that neither of them belonged easily to the world as it was.
Aquarius, both of them.
Celine liked to joke about it — how they were wired differently, how they observed life from a slight distance, as if reality were a painting hung just a little too high. Catherine never laughed when Celine said it, but she understood. They were thinkers. Watchers. People who felt deeply but rarely showed it in ways others expected.
The late afternoon sun spilled into Celine's room in warm stripes, cutting across the disorder. Catherine was curled into the corner of the couch, a blanket drawn loosely around her shoulders, a novel resting open in her hands. She had been reading the same page for nearly twenty minutes — not because the prose was difficult, but because her mind kept drifting, snagging on half-formed thoughts, on memories that refused to stay quiet.
The book was one Celine had lent her. Something literary and melancholic, the kind that lingered long after the last sentence. Catherine liked how the story moved slowly, deliberately — how it didn't rush to soothe its characters. It made her feel less alone in her own unrest.
Across from her, Celine lay face-down on the bed like a dramatic starfish, scrolling on her ipad.
That peace was shattered when the phone on the nightstand shrilled.
Celine groaned into her pillow. "No. I don't want to human right now."
"Your grandma," Catherine said, eyeing the caller id.
Celine bolted upright.
"Give me that—she'll think I'm dead if I don't pick up on the second ring."
She answered with a deliberately sweet.
"Grandmaaaa, my sunshine."
Even Catherine could hear her grandmother's stern warmth through the speaker. The woman didn't waste time.
"Celine, a new tenant for My Penthouse, wants to meet the family before signing. Go there, assist him to check the Penthouse and finish the paperwork for me."
Celine's face fell. "Today? Grandma, I'm busy."
"With what? Lying horizontal?" the old woman shot back.
Catherine choked on air. Celine gasped theatrically.
"I am hurt. Deeply." Then, quieter, glancing at Catherine, "Can't you go?"
"I'm going to the clinic," Grandma replied. "I need a representative. You're the granddaughter I trust to not scare the tenants away."
"...Grandma, that is unfair. I'm very approachable."
A silence. Then..
"Take Catherine with you. She has a sensible face."
Catherine's head snapped up. Celine turned slowly, with the grin of someone who had just been handed ammunition.
"Hear that? Sensible face. She adores you more than me."
"I— That's not true," Catherine stammered.
"It absolutely is," Grandma said. "Catherine, dear, help my granddaughter stay polite. And send me a photo if the tenant is handsome."
"Grandma!" Celine yelped.
The line clicked off. And after the call, Celine dropped backward on her bed with an exaggerated sigh.
"My own grandmother. Betraying me. Using you against me."
Catherine tried not to smile. "It's just a lease signing."
"That's not the point!" Celine sat up, hair falling into her face.
"You heard her — I'm a wild animal, and you're the responsible adult of this friendship."
Catherine raised a brow. "You are a wild animal."
"A majestic one," Celine corrected. Then she crossed her arms.
"You're coming with me. No negotiations."
"I didn't say no."
Celine paused, surprised.
"...Really? You'll go?"
Catherine shrugged, pretending it was nothing, though her cheeks warmed slightly at the unexpected softness in Celine's voice. It wasn't romantic — it never was — but it was intimate in the way only long-standing friendships could be. The kind built on trust, shared history, and knowing exactly where the other person's sharp edges were.
They had grown closer over the past months, settling into a rhythm that felt easy and familiar. Shared routines, inside jokes, the quiet understanding that Catherine was, without question, Celine's best friend — the person who stayed when things felt heavy, who knew when to speak and when not to.
"Of course," Catherine murmured, dry as ever. "Someone has to make sure you don't accidentally rent your grandmother's penthouse to a cult."
Celine gasped, affronted, shooting her a look. "I would never rent to a cult."
She paused, then added thoughtfully, "Unless it was clearly a fake one. You know — suspiciously well-organized, entirely women, very queer, definitely over-educated."
Catherine raised an eyebrow. "That's not a cult. That's just your social circle."
Celine burst out laughing. "See? This is why you're my best friend. You know exactly how gay I am, and you still keep me grounded."
Catherine laughed with her, the sound warm and unguarded — easy in a way that only came from knowing someone fully and being loved anyway.
Celine hopped off the bed, clapping her hands once, sharp and decisive.
"Okay! Outfit check," she announced. "Because if this tenant turns out to be cute, I have a reputation to uphold."
Catherine didn't even look up from where she was sitting. "I'm not getting involved in that."
"You already are," Celine said breezily. "Grandma assigned you to supervise."
She circled Catherine once, appraising her like a project, then stopped and pointed at her simple blouse and worn jeans.
"...We might need to upgrade you a little."
Catherine glanced down at herself. "These are perfectly acceptable clothes."
"These are errands clothes," Celine corrected. "Not 'accidentally meet someone important in your life' clothes."
"Celine—"
"No, no," she cut in, already reaching for the closet door. "If he's handsome, I need you prepared. For reasons."
Catherine narrowed her eyes. "What reasons?"
Celine's grin turned wicked—not flirtatious, just pure best-friend mischief. "So I can sell you to a millionaire and retire early."
"CELINE—!"
Celine laughed, delighted, and grabbed Catherine by the wrist, tugging her up from the bed. "Relax. I'm kidding. Mostly. But also, you deserve better than looking like you're about to argue with a waitress complaining about foods and services."
"I would win that argument."
"I know," Celine said fondly. "That's why you need a better outfit. Powerful women need good armor."
She shoved hangers aside with dramatic flair, muttering to herself as she went. Catherine stood there, arms crossed, watching her with the resigned patience of someone who had been subjected to this exact ritual many times before.
"You realize," Catherine said, "that I'm only doing this because you'll be unbearable otherwise."
Celine didn't look back. "That's friendship."
The sun dipped lower outside the windows, spilling warm gold across the room as fabric rustled and hangers clinked. Their laughter wove easily through the air — loud, unguarded, the kind that only came from years of shared space and mutual trust.
Neither of them knew that destiny — or the universe, or whatever force guided inconvenient meetings — had already set the stage.
The handsome tenant existed.
He was on his way.
The Tenant Arrives
The penthouse lobby smelled faintly of citrus and marble polish — the kind of quiet luxury that didn't announce itself, but assumed you already knew. Everything gleamed without being ostentatious: pale stone floors veined like art, brushed brass accents, walls of glass that caught the afternoon sun and bent it into something warm and expensive.
Celine strode ahead as if the building had been designed with her in mind, heels clicking in confident, familiar rhythm. She looked perfectly at ease in spaces like this — born to polished surfaces and high ceilings.
Catherine followed beside her, far more understated, though the simple blouse Celine had bullied her into wearing softened her edges just enough to make her quietly striking. She moved with the calm assurance of someone unimpressed by wealth, her gaze observant rather than dazzled.
When the elevator opened directly into the private foyer, sunlight poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, washing over glossy floors, sculptural furniture, and minimalist art that probably cost more than most apartments downtown.
Celine let out a low, appreciative whistle.
"I suddenly understand why Grandma refuses to sell this place," she said. "If I lived here, I'd become insufferable."
"You already are," Catherine replied mildly.
Celine smiled. "Yes, but I'd be rich and insufferable."
"It's beautiful," Catherine admitted softly, eyes drifting toward the skyline beyond the glass.
Before they could explore further, the elevator chimed again. The concierge stepped out, posture impeccable.
"Miss Veronica Celine?"
Celine turned instantly, flipping her hair with the ease of someone who'd practiced that gesture her whole life. Old money confidence, sharpened by modern irreverence.
"That's me."
"Your prospective tenants have arrived. They'll be up shortly."
Celine clasped her hands together, eyes bright with anticipation. "Catherine. Behave."
Catherine didn't look at her. "I'm not the problem here."
"You don't know that yet."
Catherine sighed, long-suffering.
Then footsteps echoed — measured, unhurried. Male voices followed, low and confident, the kind that filled space without trying.
Something in the air shifted.
Celine straightened instinctively.
Catherine glanced toward the glass doors, expression unreadable.
And then they entered.
Two men stepped into the foyer, framed briefly by the open elevator doors like a carefully staged reveal.
One of them turned first.
Tall. Sharp-jawed. Hair styled in that infuriatingly effortless way that suggested he'd spent just enough time on it to look like he hadn't tried at all. Black shirt open at the collar, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms that spoke of tailored suits and expensive watches.
Axel Maximilian.
He smiled — slow, warm, practiced. The kind of smile that had opened doors, closed deals, and probably broken hearts without lingering guilt.
Beside him stood Adrian — slightly shorter, impeccably dressed, eyes already assessing the room with amused intelligence.
Adrian leaned in just enough that only Max could hear him, voice low and familiar. "Try not to do the thing."
Max didn't look away from the women yet. "What thing?"
"The heartbreaker thing," Adrian said dryly. "The one where you smile, say absolutely nothing meaningful, and somehow ruin someone's heart."
Max huffed a quiet laugh. "That's exaggerated."
Adrian shot him a look. "I've known you since you were twenty-five. I've helped you move apartments after three 'clean breaks.' You don't break hearts — you leave emotional crime scenes."
Max finally glanced at him, unimpressed. "You're dramatic."
"I'm accurate," Adrian replied. Then, softer, more serious beneath the humor, "Just... don't be that guy here. This isn't a bar. It's someone's home."
Max's smile dimmed — just a fraction.
"Relax," he said. "I can behave."
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "History suggests otherwise."
Celine inhaled so sharply she almost choked.
Catherine blinked once.
Nothing more.
Max stepped forward, confidence unbroken. "Good afternoon," he said, voice smooth and unhurried. "You must be the representatives from the owner's family."
Celine nodded a bit too enthusiastically. "Y-Yes. Yes, we are. I'm Celine. This is Catherine."
"I'm Maximilian, you can call me Max."
Axel shook Celine's hand first, charm dialed up, lips curved in an easy smile.
Then he turned to Catherine and extended his hand, his expression softening — expectation flickering there, as if he were used to a certain reaction.
She took his hand briefly. Firm grip. Polite. Professional.
And released it immediately.
No smile. No lingering glance. No shift in posture.
Max blinked.
Adrian leaned closer again, barely containing his grin. "...She didn't even blink. I'm Adrian.."
Celine, sensing the moment, beamed innocently. "Catherine's allergic to bullshit," she said cheerfully.
"But don't worry. It's not contagious."
Catherine didn't deny it.
Max didn't retreat after the failed charm.
If anything, he leaned into it.
"Well," he said lightly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel intentional, "that's refreshing."
Catherine met his gaze, calm and unreadable. "What is?"
"Someone who doesn't pretend to be impressed," Max replied, a half-smile tugging at his mouth. "It's rare."
"It's efficient," Catherine said. "We're here to talk about the apartment."
Celine clapped once, delighted. "I like her," she announced, as if that hadn't already been established. "She terrifies men just enough to keep things honest."
Axel laughed — genuine this time — eyes flicking back to Catherine. "I wouldn't say terrified."
"No," Adrian murmured, barely moving his lips. "That was indifference. Much worse."
Axel ignored him and shifted his stance slightly, casual but calculated, lowering his voice just enough. "Catherine, was it? You have a very... steady presence."
Catherine raised an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment?"
"It's an observation," he said smoothly. "I tend to notice composure."
"That so?" she replied, tone neutral. "I tend to notice when people mistake curiosity for invitation."
For a beat, Max just stared at her.
Then he smiled again — slower now, intrigued rather than confident. "You're different."
Celine groaned. "Oh no. He said the line."
Max glanced at her. "The line?"
"The one right before you becomes a problem," Celine said cheerfully. "Fair warning: she doesn't collect broken men the way you collect broken hearts."
Behind them, Adrian lifted two fingers and tapped his own wrist once — a small, almost imperceptible gesture.
Max caught it instantly.
Careful.
Max responded with the faintest tilt of his head. Barely there. Barely visible.
I see it.
Adrian exhaled through his nose, lips twitching. This was new. Max noticed people all the time — but he didn't adjust for them.
Max turned back to Catherine, undeterred but subtly recalibrated. "I hope you'll forgive my bluntness," he said. "I like knowing who I'm dealing with."
"Then you should be careful with assumptions," Catherine replied calmly. "They tend to disappoint."
That did it.
Something shifted behind Max's eyes — the practiced charm giving way to genuine focus. For the first time since he'd stepped into the penthouse, he looked less like a man in control and more like one paying attention.
Adrian leaned closer again, voice low, amused. "Congratulations," he murmured. "You've met the one woman immune to your nonsense."
Max didn't look away from Catherine. "I'm starting to think," he said quietly, "that makes her dangerous."
Celine beamed. "Oh, absolutely. That's why she's my favorite."
Catherine sighed. "You say that like it's a warning."
"It is," Celine said sweetly.
And somewhere between the marble floors and the afternoon light, Max realized — with a flicker of something unfamiliar — that this meeting was already slipping out of its expected shape.
For the first time, the penthouse didn't feel quite so controlled.
And Catherine, heart steady and expression unreadable, had absolutely no intention of playing along with a Playboy's expectations.
──── ୨୧ ────
The four of them stepped into the private elevator, its interior wrapped in dark wood panels and soft, golden lighting that felt more like a luxury hotel than a residential building. The doors slid shut with a quiet, expensive hush.
Celine stiffened immediately at Catherine's side, leaning in and whispering like someone defusing a bomb.
"Kat, are you seeing this man? Look at his face. Look at his smile. Do something."
Catherine pressed the button for the penthouse floor, unbothered. "I am doing something."
Celine stared at her. "What?!"
"Standing."
Celine groaned and nearly head-butted the wall.
Max glanced over, amusement flickering across his face as the elevator began its smooth ascent. "Long morning?"
Celine laughed too quickly. "Haha—no, not at all—just... cardio."
Catherine corrected calmly, "She panicked."
"Catherine!" Celine hissed.
Max chuckled, clearly entertained. Adrian watched the numbers climb, already shaking his head. Max glanced over, amusement flickering across his features.
"Do you two work together?" Max asked, glancing between them, his tone polite but observant, like he was already cataloging dynamics.
Celine nodded immediately. "We do."
Catherine inclined her head once in confirmation.
"Assistants," Celine added. "At Halesia Group."
Max's brows lifted, interest sharpening. "Ah. I thought it was either that—or you'd just graduated from the same very exclusive campus society."
Celine laughed. "God, no. If this were a campus thing, we'd be dressed much worse and arguing about who stole whose lipstick."
Catherine said evenly, "And we wouldn't be this punctual."
That earned a small smile from him.
"So you're colleagues?" he said, thoughtfully. "Not friends dragged along out of obligation."
"We met at work," Catherine clarified.
"And we became friends," Celine corrected, nudging her lightly. "Important distinction."
Max studied them for a moment longer. "You don't behave like most assistants I've met."
Celine grinned. "We take that as a compliment."
Catherine added calmly, "We do our jobs."
Max hummed, amused. "Efficient. I respect that. That must be... interesting."
Max's eyes drifted to Catherine again, gauging her reaction.
She gave none.
The elevator doors slid open directly into the penthouse, revealing a private foyer washed in late-afternoon light. Pale marble floors stretched outward, polished to a quiet shine, reflecting the skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything felt deliberate — curated without excess, elegant without warmth, yet waiting for someone to live inside it.
Celine stepped out first, posture shifting subtly as she slipped into a role she knew well.
"Welcome," she said, gesturing broadly. "This is the main living area."
She walked ahead with easy familiarity, heels echoing softly as she pointed things out, half-professional, half-playful. "The living room opens fully into the kitchen and dining space. Open-plan, but still separated enough that you can ignore guests if you want."
Catherine followed beside her, attentive but quiet, eyes scanning details — the clean architectural lines, the balance between glass and stone, the way the city seemed to hover just outside the windows.
Max lingered a step behind them, taking in the space — and occasionally, Catherine.
The living room was expansive, anchored by a low sectional sofa facing a sleek, modern fireplace. Above it hung a large abstract painting — all motion and restraint — the kind that demanded interpretation without offering answers.
Celine waved a hand toward it. "Grandma insists the art stays. Non-negotiable. She says it gives the place 'character.'"
"It gives the place intimidation," Adrian muttered.
Celine smiled sweetly. "Exactly."
She led them into the kitchen next.
The space was immaculate — pale stone counters, a massive island with built-in seating, appliances seamlessly integrated behind smooth cabinetry. Brass fixtures caught the sunlight, warm against the cool marble.
"Fully equipped," Celine said. "No one's ever actually cooked anything ambitious here, but in theory, you could."
Max glanced at her, amused. "You don't believe I cook?"
Celine tilted her head. "I believe you own knives."
Adrian coughed. "She's being generous."
Catherine examined the kitchen quietly. "It's practical," she said. "Efficient layout."
Max smiled at her. "High praise."
She didn't respond.
Celine continued down the hallway, clearly enjoying herself now.
"Three bedrooms," she announced, opening doors as she went. "Primary suite at the end — walk-in closet, private bath, very dramatic morning light."
The main bedroom was spacious but restrained, with large windows framing the skyline, the bathroom beyond all glass and pale stone.
"This one," Celine added lightly, glancing at Max, "is usually where people decide they're ready to settle down."
Axel chuckled. "Dangerous assumptions."
"Oh, I make them professionally," Celine replied.
She opened the second door. "Guest room. Or office. Or existential crisis room."
Adrian nodded. "Relatable."
The third room was smaller but bright, perfect for a study or spare bedroom.
"This one," Celine said, "is for pretending you'll have overnight guests who aren't emotionally complicated."
Catherine almost smiled. Almost.
Finally, Celine slid open the glass doors to the balcony.
The city opened up before them — traffic far below, buildings stretching into the horizon, the light turning everything gold. Outdoor seating lined the edge, intimate and elevated, removed from the noise.
Max stepped closer to the railing. "This view alone might convince me."
Celine glanced at him, satisfied. "That's the idea. You'd be renting the place as-is. Long-term preferred."
Catherine stayed just inside the doorway, arms loosely crossed, gaze steady on the skyline rather than the man beside her.
Max noticed.
"Does it pass inspection?" he asked her casually.
She met his eyes briefly. "The penthouse is suitable."
"And me?"
She looked away. "Irrelevant."
Adrian bit back a laugh.
Celine clapped her hands once, delighted. "All right! If you're still interested, we can sit and go through the lease."
Max smiled — slower now, something thoughtful beneath the charm.
"Oh," he said. "I'm interested."
The women moved toward the foyer, Celine still chatting animatedly about "feng shui vibes" while Catherine checked something on her phone.
Max stayed behind for half a beat.
Adrian followed, arms crossed, already smiling.
"Well," Adrian said softly, once they were out of earshot, "that went poorly."
Max exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "It went fine."
"She didn't smile," Adrian pointed out. "She didn't linger. She didn't care."
Max glanced toward Catherine's back — straight posture, unhurried movements, attention already elsewhere.
"That's new," he admitted.
Adrian raised an eyebrow. "That's dangerous."
Max scoffed. "For who?"
"For you," Adrian said calmly. "You're not used to women who don't want something from you."
Max didn't answer immediately.
"That look," Adrian continued, lowering his voice. "That wasn't interest. That was... evaluation."
Axel's mouth curved slightly. "Good. I like a challenge."
Adrian shook his head. "You always say that right before things get complicated."
Axel didn't deny it.
The Goodbye
Max walked them back toward the private elevator, steps unhurried, posture perfectly composed — the kind of man who knew how to end meetings on his terms.
"It was a pleasure meeting you both," he said smoothly, voice warm but professional. "Thank you for taking the time to show me the property. I'll have my legal team coordinate the next steps."
Celine nodded, slipping easily back into business mode. "Of course. We'll forward everything by the end of the day."
She flashed him a bright, courteous smile — practiced, harmless.
Catherine stepped into the elevator first, already done with the encounter, gaze drifting to the glowing panel of floor numbers as if the conversation had concluded minutes ago.
Max didn't move to follow.
Instead, he leaned slightly into the doorway, one hand resting against the polished metal — casual, confident, blocking the closing doors just enough.
"Miss Catherine."
She paused.
Turned.
Met his eyes.
Her expression was calm. Unimpressed. Empty — not cold, not hostile, just entirely uninterested in the performance.
Max's smile softened, losing some of its shine. "You're... intriguing," he said, the word chosen carefully, like an invitation wrapped in observation.
Catherine blinked once.
"No," she replied evenly. "I'm not."
The doors slid shut between them, cutting off whatever charm he'd intended to deploy next.
Max stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at his own reflection in the closing metal.
Inside the elevator, Celine exhaled loudly. "Wow."
Catherine remained still, eyes forward.
"You realize," Celine added, grinning, "that you just emotionally ghosted a very attractive man in real time."
"I answered his statement," Catherine said. "That seemed sufficient."
Celine laughed, delighted. "Remind me never to flirt with you."
The elevator descended, smooth and silent.
And for the first time in a long while, Axel Maximilian had not been dismissed — but declined.
Quietly. Completely.
Later that evening, alone again in the penthouse, Max stood near the balcony doors, city lights beginning to flicker on below.
"She didn't ask anything," he said quietly.
Adrian looked up from his phone. "About what?"
"About me," Axel replied. "Not my job. Not my name. Not why I wanted the place."
Adrian smiled knowingly. "Because she didn't care."
Axel nodded slowly. "She wasn't cold. She just... wasn't playing."
"That's the difference," Adrian said. "You flirt. Most people respond. She opted out."
Axel exhaled, something unfamiliar settling in his chest.
"She's not a heart to win," Adrian added. "She's a boundary."
Adrian glanced at him. "That's a first."
"Exactly."
His partner grinned. "And that's why you can't stop thinking about her."
Max's gaze drifted back toward the skyline — toward the memory of a woman who hadn't looked twice, hadn't bent, hadn't cared.
And for the first time in a long while, Axel Maximilian wasn't wondering how to charm someone.
He was wondering how not to cross a line.
The Shocking Reunion
Catherine tapped her ID card against the scanner.
A soft beep.
The glass doors slid open.
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of Halesia Group's main corridor, casting long bands of light across polished floors and framed award certificates lining the walls—testaments to decades of quiet power and corporate success. The office hummed with low conversation, keyboards clicking, phones ringing in restrained professionalism.
Catherine moved through it all like she belonged to the architecture itself.
Neat blouse. Hair tied back with deliberate simplicity. Her expression was calm, unreadable. The kind of woman people trusted instinctively—precise, efficient, emotionally unreachable.
Untouchable. Beside her, Celine was... not that.
She practically skipped, coffee in hand, energy vibrating through her limbs. "Kat," she whispered loudly, leaning in, "do you think we'll get something interesting today? Rosaline's been hinting about a big investor—like, big big. Super loaded. Super handsome. Super—"
"Celine," Catherine cut in, not breaking stride. "Stop."
"But it's fun to imagine!" Celine laughed. "Maybe he'll be like that guy from the penthouse yesterday. What was his name again? Axel Maxe—"
"—Maximilian Luca," Catherine finished flatly. "And he was just another man."
Celine gasped as if personally wounded. "Just another— Catherine! He was carved by angels. And he winked at you. You don't wink at people you don't find interesting."
"He winks at anyone with eyelashes," Catherine replied coolly. "He winked at the security camera."
Celine burst out laughing, clutching her stomach.
But the sound died instantly when they reached the meeting room.
The glass walls revealed a small gathering inside.
And standing at the center of it—
Axel Maximilian Luca.
He was dressed in a dark blue suit this time, impeccably tailored, crisp white shirt open just enough at the collar to suggest confidence rather than carelessness. His watch caught the overhead lights with a restrained glint. He stood beside Mrs. Rosaline as if the space had naturally arranged itself around him.
Tall. Still. Unmistakable.
Celine froze mid-step.
"Oh. My. God."
Catherine blinked once—slowly.
Her expression didn't change.
Rosaline noticed them immediately. "Ah, perfect timing," she said warmly. "Ladies, please, come forward."
Max turned.
His gaze landed on Catherine first.
Recognition sparked instantly.
Then surprise.
Then—interest, sharpened and unmistakable.
Celine stumbled forward with a breathless laugh. "Mr. Luca! We didn't expect—um—wow. Small world!"
Max's lips curved into a familiar, effortless smile. "Miss Celine, isn't it? Lovely to see you again."
Celine nearly short-circuited.
Then his eyes shifted.
To Catherine.
When he spoke again, his voice dropped slightly, losing its performative ease.
"And Miss Catherine. We meet again."
A beat.
"Still not smiling?"
Catherine regarded him calmly. "Why would I?"
Celine elbowed her sharply, whispering in panic, "Cath—! He's— He's literally—"
"A client," Catherine finished evenly. "I'm treating him as such."
Max's smile flickered — annoyance? amusement? intrigue? It was hard to tell.
Rosaline clasped her hands together, pleased. "Mr. Luca is the principal investor for our upcoming landmark project. I'll be overseeing the vision, but these two—Celine and Catherine—will be your direct assistants."
Both women bowed politely.
"If you need anything and I'm unavailable," Rosaline added, "you may consult them."
Max looked at them again.
At Celine — glowing, nervous, thoroughly entertained.
Then at Catherine, still, composed, untouched by his presence.
"Well," he said softly, almost to himself, "it appears we'll be seeing quite a lot of each other."
Celine beamed.
Catherine simply nodded, already mentally shifting into work mode.
And Max—
Max couldn't look away.
Because she didn't look impressed.
Didn't look curious.
Didn't look interested.
She looked at him like he was nothing more than a variable in a project timeline.
And for a man who had spent years being desired, admired, chased—
That was the most unsettling reaction of all
The meeting concluded with handshakes, closing remarks, and the usual polite efficiency. People filed out, voices lowering, chairs sliding back into place.
Axel Maximilian Luca stayed where he was.
From his perspective, the room looked unchanged—glass walls, sleek table, the city humming beyond—but something in him had shifted, quietly and irrevocably.
Adrian waited until the door closed behind the last staff member before speaking.
"Well," he said lightly, "that was new."
Max exhaled through his nose, loosening his tie a fraction. "She didn't even hesitate."
"No," Adrian agreed. "She categorized you. Instantly. Like a spreadsheet."
Max leaned back against the table, arms crossed. He replayed the moment in his head—her voice steady, her eyes unreadable, the complete absence of reaction when he'd smiled at her.
"She wasn't rude," he said slowly. "She just... didn't care."
Adrian nodded. "That's worse for you."
Max shot him a look. "You enjoy this."
"I enjoy watching the universe humble you," Adrian replied. "It doesn't happen often."
Max let out a quiet laugh, more thoughtful than amused. "I flirted. Subtly. Professionally. Nothing."
"She shut you down with 'why would I?'" Adrian said. "That's not a rejection. That's a philosophical disagreement."
Max's lips curved despite himself.
"And now," Adrian continued, "she's your assistant. Which means you don't get to play. You don't get to push. You definitely don't get to charm."
Max straightened, expression sharpening again. "Then I won't."
Adrian studied him. "You mean that?"
"Yes," Max said after a beat. "She drew a line. I noticed it."
Adrian smiled faintly. "That might be a first."
Max's gaze drifted to the glass wall, where Catherine had passed moments ago—head down, focused, already moving on.
"She's not cold," Max murmured. "She's... disciplined."
"And unavailable," Adrian added. "In every sense that matters."
Max nodded once.
That, more than anything, intrigued him.
The Office Pantry — Celine losing her mind.
The moment the meeting room door closed behind her, Celine ran.
Straight into the office pantry.
She slammed the door shut, leaned back against it, and slid down until she was crouched on the floor, one hand pressed to her chest.
"Oh my God," she whispered. "Oh. My. God."
Catherine wasn't there. Thank God. Catherine would not understand the magnitude of this moment.
Celine fanned her face with both hands. "Okay. Okay. Breathe. You are a lesbian. A committed lesbian."
She stood, pacing between the coffee machine and the snack shelf.
"If I weren't gay," she muttered, "every single tease he made would've made me weak. The voice drop? Illegal. The eye contact? A crime. The watch?"
She groaned and grabbed a granola bar she didn't want.
"And the worst part?" she continued to herself. "He knew I was reacting. He was enjoying it. That's his whole thing."
She stopped abruptly, eyes widening.
"Oh my God. He tried that on Catherine."
She laughed, sharp and delighted. "And she gave him nothing. Absolutely nothing. I've never seen a man deflate in real time like that."
Celine straightened, pride blooming.
"My best friend," she said reverently. "Emotionally unavailable. Professionally lethal."
She took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, squared her shoulders.
"Okay," she whispered. "Get it together. You are here to work."
She paused, then smirked.
"But if I weren't a lesbian..."
She shook her head, grabbed her coffee, and marched back out.
Because this project was about to be very interesting.
The Next Day — The office was still half-asleep when Axel Maximilian Luca walked in.
Keyboards clicked.
Printers hummed.
Coffee steamed.
Then—something shifted.
He was tall, unmistakably so, his suit cut so precisely it looked like it had been tailored for the building itself. Charcoal fabric, crisp lines, not a wrinkle in sight. His presence didn't announce itself loudly; it didn't need to. It settled into the room like gravity.
He did not belong in an office at eight in the morning.
He belonged on a billboard advertising watches no one could afford, leaning casually against a yacht, promising a life nobody actually lived.
And he wasn't alone.
Rosaline walked beside him, tablet in hand, speaking briskly about figures and deadlines. Max listened easily, nodding at the right moments, contributing just enough to show he was engaged without ever breaking stride.
Around them, heads subtly turned.
Celine stiffened instantly.
Her fingers froze above her keyboard.
"Oh no," she whispered. "No. No, no, no—why is he here this early? That's illegal."
Catherine, beside her, didn't so much as blink. She continued typing, posture straight, expression neutral.
Max scanned the office as they walked.
Then he saw them.
The shift was subtle—but unmistakable.
A slight straightening of his shoulders.
A spark behind his eyes.
The faintest change in pace.
He veered away from Rosaline mid-sentence.
And walked toward their desks.
"Oh my God," Celine whispered urgently. "He's coming. He's actually coming. Catherine, help me. Pretend to faint so we can escape."
"No."
"You're so selfish."
Max stopped in front of them, hands slipping casually into his pockets like this was exactly where he intended to be all along.
"Good morning," he said smoothly. "Ladies."
Celine combusted internally.
"A—Ah! G–Good morning, Mr. Luca!"
Catherine gave a single nod, barely lifting her head.
"Good morning."
Max's gaze lingered on her half a second too long.
Then—amusement.
"Not even a smile today?" he asked softly, almost conspiratorially.
"No," Catherine replied.
He laughed under his breath. Quiet. Real.
Celine's knees nearly betrayed her.
She coughed, forcing herself upright. "S–Sir, can we help you?"
"Well," Max said, leaning against Catherine's desk with an ease that suggested he'd done this a thousand times before—and usually been welcomed for it, "Rosaline asked me to review the updated proposal. I thought I'd start by greeting my two favorite assistants."
Celine squeaked.
Catherine kept typing.
Max tilted his head, studying her. "You'll ignore me even if I stand right here, hm?"
"I'm working."
Celine slapped her arm. "Kate! You're being rude!"
"He doesn't mind," Catherine murmured.
Max bit the inside of his cheek, clearly enjoying himself.
"Actually," he said lightly, "I do mind. I'm not used to being ignored."
Catherine stopped typing.
Finally looked up.
"You'll live."
Across the room—
Adrian choked violently on his coffee.
Celine buried her face in her hands. "Why are you like this..."
Max shifted his attention to Celine instead, leaning closer with a playful tilt of his head. "Well, at least one of you appreciates me."
Celine's brain blue-screened. "I—um—I—maybe—ah—well—"
Then she straightened.
Hands on hips.
"Too bad I'm not into men."
The office froze.
Max blinked.
Catherine didn't.
Adrian laughed outright.
"You're not into men?" Max repeated, intrigued.
"Not particularly!" Celine said brightly. "Why need men when I have Catherine?"
"Please don't involve me," Catherine sighed.
Max chuckled, then looked back at Catherine. "And you? Are you also 'not into men'?"
"No," she said calmly. "I'm just not into you."
Silence.
A pen clattered to the floor.
Someone gasped.
Celine covered her mouth to keep from screaming.
Max exhaled—slow, measured.
"Well," he murmured. "That's honest."
"It's efficient."
Celine elbowed her. "Efficient?! Catherine, that was brutal!"
Max stepped back, lifting his hands. "All right. Message received."
But his eyes still burned with interest.
"I'm not giving up yet."
Catherine didn't react.
Celine nearly fainted.
Max walked out like a man who refused to acknowledge the bruise forming on his pride.
Adrian caught up easily, grinning as he'd just witnessed a masterpiece.
"Ohhh," Adrian sighed. "That was art."
"Don't."
"Don't what? Relive the moment your ego was gently but firmly placed in a coffin?"
"She didn't reject me."
"Oh, buddy." Adrian clutched his chest. "She archived you."
Max stopped. "Enough."
Adrian only grinned wider. "You leaned on her desk like a perfume ad. She treated you like spam."
"She's different," Max muttered.
Adrian paused.
Then smiled, softer now. "Yeah. That's the problem."
Max said nothing.
And that—more than anything—told Adrian everything.
The Boundaries
The week dissolved into routine so seamlessly that Catherine barely noticed the days changing.
Meetings bled into drafts. Drafts turned into revisions. Deadlines hovered like quiet threats no one dared name aloud. Halesia Tower hummed with controlled urgency—keyboards clicking, printers groaning, ambition stretching thin across every floor.
And threaded through all of it, Axel Maximilian drifted through the building like a dangerously charming storm cloud.
He appeared where he had no reason to be.
One moment, Catherine would spot him leaning at the edge of the design team's corner, standing far too close to a junior architect, smiling as if he were listening to something deeply personal instead of a breakdown of stairwell ratios. Another time, he'd be in the pantry, coaxing laughter out of the barista until the espresso machine surrendered an extra shot "by accident." Sometimes he materialized right at their project table, hands in his pockets, asking questions he already knew the answers to—questions designed not to learn, but to observe.
To provoke.
Celine called him visual pollution.
Catherine called him irrelevant.
He, unfortunately, had taken to calling her Miss Stone Cold.
Catherine ignored him with such commitment that it became almost theatrical. She didn't acknowledge his presence, his voice, or the way the room subtly shifted whenever he entered. Her focus never wavered. Her posture never changed.
If he stood beside her desk, she typed. If he spoke her name, she read. If he leaned too close, she adjusted her chair by precisely two inches and continued working.
People noticed. Whispers followed. Someone once joked—quietly—that she should be studied.
Max noticed most of all.
By Thursday afternoon, the office felt stretched thin. Designers rushed to correct last-minute proposals, interns jogged past clutching stacks of printouts like lifelines, and the air buzzed with low-grade stress.
That was when Celine nudged Catherine with her elbow.
"Look," she murmured. "Our local menace is at it again."
"Which one?" Catherine asked, eyes still fixed on her screen.
"The tall one with cheekbones sharp enough to commit homicide."
"That doesn't narrow it down."
Celine sighed dramatically. "Fine. Axel Maximilian. Seducer of the masses. Destroyer of peace. Breaker of concentration."
Catherine glanced up once.
Just once.
Max caught her gaze instantly.
He winked.
Celine—traitor—winked back.
Catherine turned slowly back to her monitor, unimpressed, unmoved, as if nothing at all had happened.
Max's smile didn't fade.
It deepened.
Like her indifference was the most interesting thing he'd tasted all week.
That night, they escaped to their usual bar—a narrow, dim place tucked behind two twisting alleys, warm and familiar, humming softly with low music and murmured conversations. The bartender didn't bother asking. Two drinks arrived without ceremony.
Catherine set her phone aside. "I called my mom today."
Celine straightened instantly. "How is she?"
"She's fine. Tired. Still working too much at Hudson. She said she's stress-baking again."
"Oh no," Celine gasped. "That means your kitchen is full of cookies again."
"Yes."
"I'm coming over."
"You want to steal her pastries."
"I want to help," Celine said primly. "By reducing inventory."
Catherine shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips despite herself.
The moment lingered—warm, easy—until Celine's voice softened.
"...And your father? Boston?"
The air shifted.
"He called again," Catherine said quietly, fingers tracing the rim of her glass. "Same routine. Harassing her. Accusations. She blocked him, but he keeps trying from new numbers."
Celine's expression hardened completely. "He never stops."
"No."
"Do you want me to send a warning?"
"You can't threaten him."
"I absolutely can—and will."
"Celine."
"What? I'm scary. It's a talent."
Despite everything, Catherine let out a small breath that might've been a laugh. "Please don't hack his phone."
"No promises."
Later, halfway through their second round, Celine leaned in, eyes bright with mischief. "Hypothetically... what if I asked Max out?"
Catherine didn't even blink. "You won't."
"I might."
"You won't."
"You don't know that."
"You don't date men."
Celine slapped the table. "RIGHT. Damn it. Why do I forget?"
"Selective delusion."
"You're heartless."
"You're chaotic."
They clinked glasses anyway.
Celine's phone buzzed moments later. "MATCH!" she yelped.
"A girl?" Catherine asked.
"A very cute girl," Celine grinned, turning the screen. "Tattoos. Plays guitar. Her bio says, 'I can build a bed frame you can trust.' Catherine—look at her arms."
Catherine glanced. "She looks... capable."
"Capable of ruining my life," Celine whispered dreamily.
"Good for you."
Then Celine froze.
"Catherine," she whispered urgently, "do not look. Absolutely do not—"
Catherine looked instantly.
Axel Maximilian stood at the bar.
Black shirt. Sleeves rolled to his elbows. Confidence draped over him like a second skin, lazy and predatory, as if the night itself had been waiting for him to arrive.
Beside him stood a woman—long legs, sleek dress, hair styled with intention. She laughed at something he murmured, fingers brushing his arm like it already belonged there.
Celine slammed her glass down. "No. Absolutely not."
"He's on a date," Catherine observed calmly.
"Here! At our bar!"
"It's public."
"And he brought a girl."
Catherine arched a brow. "Would you prefer a man?"
"NO—I—ugh!" Celine pressed her fingers to her temples. "This is so rude."
"You're projecting."
Max leaned closer to the woman. Her laughter spilled easily, warm and practiced.
Celine narrowed her eyes. "Okay. Bet with me. This week's girl—or tonight's girl?"
"Tonight," Catherine said without hesitation.
Celine stared. "Bold."
"She's dressed too carefully," Catherine replied, detached. "And his hand—lower back. That's not emotional. That's efficient."
Celine shuddered. "You're terrifying."
"It's realistic."
"He flirts with everyone," Celine muttered. "I can't believe he's multiplying."
Catherine lifted her glass. "You chose this bar."
"And fate chose violence."
Catherine snorted—and then froze.
Because Maximilian turned.
Not by accident. Not because of a noise or a shifting crowd. He turned the way people do when they feel a presence settle on them, when instinct pulls attention like a hook beneath the ribs.
Even in the low amber light, his gaze cut cleanly through the bar, past the bartender, past the clusters of laughter, until it landed squarely on their booth.
Locked.
Celine's panic was immediate. "Oh no. He saw us."
"He sees everyone," Catherine said calmly.
"No, Catherine—he's coming."
"Let him walk."
Celine slapped her arm. "STOP BEING A STATUE."
Catherine merely lifted her glass and took an unhurried sip, as if nothing in the room had changed at all.
Max moved toward them with lazy confidence, one hand slipping into his pocket. His date followed half a step behind, confused but game, the kind of woman used to being the one people noticed. The hum of the bar seemed to tilt subtly as he approached.
"Great," Celine muttered. "Now we get front-row seats to his crimes."
Max stopped at their table, leaning just a little too close, exactly the way he always did—like proximity was a privilege he expected to be granted.
"Well," he drawled, "what are the odds?"
"One in a million," Celine replied tightly.
Catherine glanced up once. "Hello."
His grin sharpened. "Miss Stone Cold. Didn't think I'd see you outside the office."
"You don't think about me at all," Catherine said simply.
Celine's mouth fell open. "CATHERINE."
For the briefest fraction of a second, Max froze.
Then his date looked between them, brow creasing. "Uh... Max? Friends of yours?"
"Sort of," he said smoothly, recovering. "Work acquaintances."
"We come here often," Celine added, folding her arms.
Max lifted an eyebrow. "Without me?"
"We didn't send invitations," Catherine replied, deadpan.
Celine kicked her under the table. Catherine didn't react.
Max shifted his attention to Celine—always the easier terrain. "You look pretty tonight," he said, voice dropping low, intimate.
Celine grinned sweetly. "Oh? Does your date know you flirt like it's a paid position?"
The woman beside him stiffened.
Max laughed lightly, unbothered. "Just being friendly."
Catherine's voice cut through the space like a blade. "You were also 'friendly' to the intern yesterday."
Max turned toward her, smirk already in place—but Catherine wasn't looking at him. She was still stirring her drink, slow and precise, as if the world beyond her glass barely existed.
It was such a small gesture.
It hit harder than a slap.
His date shifted, eyes narrowing. "Is that... normal?"
Max cleared his throat. "Catherine just has a dry sense of humor."
"I'm not joking," Catherine said without lifting her eyes.
Celine choked on her drink, wheezing with barely contained laughter.
The woman studied them now, especially Catherine, who gave her nothing—no threat, no challenge, no interest. "So... you know Max well?"
Celine opened her mouth, chaos already forming.
But Catherine spoke first. "We work on the same project. He flirts with everyone."
"Catherine—" Max started.
"Even the coffee machine," she added calmly.
Celine snorted so loudly she nearly spilled her drink.
The woman raised an eyebrow at Max. "The coffee machine?"
Max shot Catherine a look that was half amused, half offended.
She sipped her drink.
Unbothered.
Max took a step back, recalibrating. "Well," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, "enjoy your night."
"We were," Catherine replied.
He stared at her, searching—for irritation, for warmth, for anything that proved he existed in her awareness.
He found nothing.
Celine waved cheerfully. "Have fun, Max! Practice safe heartbreak!"
He blinked. "What?"
"Rats," Celine said instantly. "I said, have fun at the bar."
"She didn't say that," Catherine muttered, pressing her fingers to her temple.
Max's date tugged gently at his arm, ready to go.
He didn't move at first.
His eyes lingered on Catherine—too long, too openly—before he finally allowed himself to be pulled away.
Celine collapsed back into the booth. "My God. He's exhausting even when he's not trying."
"He's... consistent," Catherine said mildly.
"Consistently annoying."
"And consistently flirting."
"And consistently hot."
Catherine rolled her eyes. "You can have him."
"No thanks," Celine said proudly. "I like women."
Catherine lifted her glass. "Then let's toast to that."
They clinked glasses.
Across the bar, Max glanced back once more.
His date didn't notice.
But he did.
And for the first time since they'd met, Axel Maximilian Luca had no idea what game he was playing anymore.
Max's Side of the Night
The woman Catherine and Celine had seen earlier—the one who laughed as if everything Max said deserved applause—sat beside him now in the passenger seat. The door had barely closed before the city swallowed them again, lower Manhattan stretching ahead in a ribbon of light and glass. Neon reflections slid across the windshield, cutting her profile into flashes of gold and shadow.
She didn't wait.
"Max," she murmured, already leaning in, her fingers gliding up the front of his jacket with practiced certainty. "Why don't we take this somewhere less... public?"
It was the right line. Perfectly timed. The kind of invitation he usually accepted without thinking.
He kissed her.
The kiss came easily—too easily. Familiar as breathing. Controlled, confident, the kind that never rushed yet somehow made time feel scarce. Max knew exactly how long to linger, how much pressure to apply, when to soften, and when to deepen it just enough to suggest promise without giving anything away.
Her breath caught almost immediately.
He tilted his head, slow and deliberate, guiding the kiss instead of chasing it. One hand came up to her jaw—not gripping, not possessive—just firm enough to anchor her there, thumb brushing lightly beneath her ear as if he already knew the spot that would undo her. The contact was intimate without being urgent, practiced without feeling lazy.
She melted into it.
That always happened.
Max kissed like someone who understood anticipation as an art form. He never devoured; he invited.
He pulled back just enough to make her chase the next second, then met her halfway, keeping the rhythm unbalanced—his pace, his timing. The space between their bodies tightened, her knee brushing his, her hand sliding higher against his chest as if instinctively searching for more.
He gave her just enough.
Enough to make her forget the noise of the street outside.
Enough to make her lean closer, breathless.
Enough to make her assume—naturally—that this was going somewhere.
Because it usually did.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, knuckles pressing against his collarbone. She sighed into the kiss, that soft sound people made when they thought they were winning. When they thought they'd cracked him open.
Max felt it all—and felt nothing at the same time.
Because even as her mouth responded perfectly, even as her body angled toward his with unmistakable intention, his mind flickered elsewhere. Not to her smile. Not to the warmth between them.
But to a bar bathed in amber light.
To a woman who hadn't leaned in.
Who hadn't chased.
Who hadn't softened at all.
The contrast struck like a fault line.
And just like that—
He stopped.
He pulled back first.
Not abruptly. Not cruelly. Just enough to end it.
Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, lips parted, already reaching for the continuation she assumed was coming. Confusion crept in when it didn't.
"Is something wrong?" she asked, still close, still warm, still wanting.
Max turned his face toward the window, jaw tightening as the city lights slid across the glass. The answer lodged somewhere between irritation and disbelief.
"I'm just... not in the mood."
The words tasted wrong in his mouth.
They always did—because he never used them.
Beside him, she scoffed, wounded pride flaring where desire had been seconds ago. But Max barely registered it. The kiss still lingered on his lips, technically flawless.
And she left, yet Max let her leave.
For the first time in his life, being good at this hadn't been enough.
His mood was off. Wrong. Like something essential had short-circuited hours earlier and never reset. He replayed the bar scene without meaning to—the moment he'd turned and found Catherine already watching, the calm in her eyes, the way she hadn't flinched or softened or pretended.
The way she'd ignored him like he didn't matter.
It shouldn't have mattered.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, jaw tightening. Whatever it was—ego, curiosity, irritation—it clung to him stubbornly, refusing to dissolve into the night as every other encounter had.
Max grabbed his phone.
"Where are you?" he asked the moment Adrian answered.
"Another bar," Adrian said, amused already. "Why?"
"Because I need a drink that doesn't involve whatever the hell that was."
Adrian laughed outright. "Max... did you get rejected?"
"I left," Max muttered.
"Same thing."
"Shut up."
Adrian's laughter softened, turning curious. "You okay?"
Max stared out at the city again, lights bleeding together, the night suddenly too sharp, too awake.
"No," he said quietly. "And I don't like it."
He started the car.
Somewhere across the city, Catherine Emmeline was probably finishing her drink, unbothered, untouched by the chaos she'd caused simply by existing. And that—that was the part he couldn't stop thinking about.
The second bar was everything the first one hadn't been.
Louder. Darker. Thicker with bodies and heat and bass that vibrated through the floor. The kind of place where people didn't talk so much as lean in close and let proximity do the work. Neon lights bled red and blue across sweat-slick surfaces, and the air smelled like alcohol, perfume, and bad decisions waiting to happen.
This—this was supposed to reset him.
Max arrived ten minutes later, slid onto a stool at the counter, and ordered his usual without thinking. The bartender recognized him instantly. They always did. There was a rhythm to this life, and Max had memorized it long ago.
He leaned back, one elbow resting against the bar, posture loose, expression unreadable.
And because he was The Maximilian, it didn't take long.
A woman drifted into his orbit like gravity had pulled her there. Long legs. Short skirt. Hair that caught the light when she tilted her head just right. She didn't hesitate—confidence was part of the uniform in places like this.
"You look like you need a distraction," she said, voice low, deliberate, her finger tracing the edge of his sleeve as if she already knew the answer.
Max turned his head slowly, letting his gaze linger just long enough to feel intentional.
"Something like that," he replied, offering the half-smile that usually did the rest of the work for him.
And it did.
She smiled back. Leaned closer. Her knee brushed his thigh. He mirrored the movement, angling in, lowering his voice so she'd have to listen harder. He asked her name. Remembered it. Made her laugh with something easy and unimportant.
Their conversation slid seamlessly into touch.
Her hand rested on his arm.
His thumb brushed her wrist.
She leaned in closer, breath warm against his jaw.
It was effortless.
Too effortless.
They moved together toward the narrow hallway near the bathrooms, pulled by nothing more than mutual expectation. The noise dimmed slightly there, replaced by muffled bass and shadows that made everything feel more private than it really was.
She backed him gently against the wall near the restroom door, hands flattening against his chest, eyes bright with anticipation.
Max kissed her.
The kiss was skilled—measured, confident, exactly what she wanted. He tilted his head, controlled the pace, let his hand slide to her waist, drawing her closer without rushing. Her breath hitched immediately, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket as if she were already bracing herself.
He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper—but still restrained. He let his mouth linger just long enough to make her chase the next contact, to make her press closer, hips aligning instinctively.
She made a soft sound against his lips.
He felt it. And still—nothing.
Not the thrill.
Not the rush.
Not even the hollow satisfaction he usually settled for.
They broke apart only long enough to breathe, her forehead brushing his, her hands sliding higher, emboldened. She laughed softly, that hopeful laugh people made when they thought the night was unfolding exactly as planned.
"Come on," she murmured. "There's a corner booth—"
He followed her anyway.
They slipped into the shadowed corner of the bar, half-hidden behind a pillar and the press of bodies. She straddled the edge of the seat, pulling him closer between her knees, her hands roaming with growing confidence. His fingers traced her waist, familiar territory, familiar response.
Second base, as effortless as muscle memory.
She wanted more. It was obvious in the way she leaned in, the way her breathing changed, the way her hands lingered as if waiting for permission.
Max gave her just enough to keep her there.
Another kiss.
A hand at her hip.
A murmur against her ear that made her shiver.
But his mind betrayed him.
Because suddenly, uninvited, another image surfaced—again.
Catherine's unmoved expression.
The way she'd looked through him.
The way she hadn't leaned in.
Hadn't softened.
Hadn't wanted anything from him at all.
The contrast hit like cold water.
Max pulled back. Again
Not abruptly. Not cruelly. Just enough to shift the balance.
She frowned, confusion flashing across her face. "Hey—what's wrong?"
He straightened slightly, stepping out of the narrow space between her knees. The music swelled around them again, louder now, intrusive.
"I'm not feeling it," he said simply.
The words landed awkwardly between them.
Her expression hardened, disappointment quickly souring into irritation. "Seriously?"
"Yeah," Max replied, already reaching for his drink. "Sorry."
She rolled her eyes, muttered something under her breath, and slid away from him without another glance, disappearing back into the crowd.
Max stayed where he was, staring down into his glass.
Adrian appeared beside him moments later, eyebrows raised, mouth already twitching with amusement.
"You are phoning it in," Adrian said. "Like, impressively phoning it in. I've seen mannequins flirt with more enthusiasm."
Max took a long sip of his drink. "I'm fine."
"No," Adrian corrected calmly. "You're weird. And when you're weird, it means your brain is malfunctioning."
Max didn't respond.
Adrian studied him for a moment longer, then leaned back against the bar.
"Hey," he added casually. "Those two girls—Celine and... Catherine?"
Max's grip tightened almost imperceptibly around the glass. "What about them?"
"They seem cool," Adrian said. "Like... actually cool. Not the usual plastic people you surround yourself with."
Max scoffed softly. "So?"
"So," Adrian continued, watching him closely, "maybe you should start making friends."
Max turned to him, incredulous. "Friends?"
"Yes. Friends. Human connection. Interacting with people you're not trying to sleep with. Revolutionary, I know."
"I'm friendly," Max shot back.
Adrian snorted. "No. You flirt. It's different."
Silence stretched between them.
Adrian sighed. "I'm just saying—Celine's sarcastic enough to handle your bullshit. And Catherine..." He paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "She doesn't fall for your charm."
Max swallowed.
"That's probably good for you."
Max didn't answer.
He lifted his glass again, the burn of alcohol doing nothing to loosen the knot tightening in his chest.
Because for the first time that night—
Someone had said the thing he didn't want to admit.
And worse—
It felt true.
Meanwhile..
The bar had thinned by the time Catherine and Celine finished their second round. The early crowd—the loud laughter, the clinking bravado of first drinks—had dissolved into something softer. Music hummed low and steady now, less a performance and more a companion. Conversations around them blurred into a warm murmur, punctuated by the occasional scrape of a chair or the soft laugh of someone leaning too close.
Catherine sat back against the booth, one ankle crossed over the other, phone balanced loosely in her hand. She scrolled through messages she already knew by heart—her mother's latest update, a work reminder she'd flagged earlier—anything familiar, anything steady. Her glass rested untouched near her elbow.
Across from her, Celine's phone buzzed sharply against the table, vibrating with purpose.
She blinked, then squinted at the screen.
"Oh," she said, suddenly alert. "My Tinder girl replied."
Catherine looked up, interest flickering despite herself. "Already?" she asked lightly. "What'd she say?"
Celine tapped the notification open, eyes scanning the message. Then she snorted, laughter breaking free before she could stop it.
"Oh wow," she said. "Bold."
Catherine straightened, narrowing her eyes. "Bold how?"
Celine turned the phone so Catherine could see, grinning as she'd just discovered gossip too good to keep.
"She said, 'You and your friend looked cute tonight. Next time bring her too.'"
Catherine choked mid-sip, coughing as she nearly sent her drink down the wrong way. "What?" She stared at the screen, then at Celine. "Why am I being dragged into your dating life?"
Celine wiggled her brows, completely unrepentant. "Because you're cute. And apparently I'm giving off polycule energy."
"That is absolutely your fault," Catherine muttered, setting her glass down with more force than necessary. She could feel warmth creeping up her neck, an unwelcome but undeniable heat.
"You lean too close to people. It confuses them."
"Excuse you," Celine said, already typing back with nimble thumbs. "I lean honestly. It's a gift."
Catherine shook her head, lips twitching despite herself. "This is what happens when you flirt with strangers in public."
"I didn't flirt," Celine protested. "I existed."
"That's flirting for you."
Celine laughed, sending off her reply before setting the phone face down. "Anyway," she said lightly, "I like her spirit. She's bold."
Catherine studied her for a moment, then allowed a small smirk. "She'll fit right in with us, then."
"Oh, absolutely," Celine agreed. "Anyone who voluntarily approaches our disaster duo needs confidence. Possibly a helmet."
They clinked glasses again, the sound soft and familiar. Comfortable. The kind of moment that didn't need documenting to matter.
Outside, the city continued its restless rhythm, but inside the booth, the world felt briefly contained—safe in shared jokes and quiet understanding.
Neither of them noticed the glance from across the bar as someone passed by the window.
And neither of them felt the way the night had subtly shifted—threads tugged, paths nudged just slightly off course.
Elsewhere — Max and the Uncomfortable Thought
Max left Adrian's bar long after the night should have ended.
His head buzzed—not pleasantly, not with the easy blur of alcohol—but with a restless, unsettled edge that refused to dull. The city lights smeared into elongated streaks as he drove, each red and green reflection blinking past without meaning.
Friends, Adrian had said.
The word felt foreign. Heavy. Unfamiliar in his mouth.
Max didn't friend women.
He charmed them. Kissed them. Learned just enough to forget them later.
That was the system. Clean. Efficient. Controlled.
But Catherine—
She didn't let him play that role.
Catherine treated him like he was optional. Entirely, brutally optional.
While the other side, Celine, treated him like a nuisance she'd tolerate for entertainment.
And for reasons he couldn't articulate without irritation, that refusal to orbit him had lodged itself in his thoughts like a splinter.
He didn't like it.
He didn't hate it either.
By the time he reached his apartment, the city quieted behind him. He kicked off his shoes, loosened his collar, and stood still in the dark for a moment longer than necessary.
Befriending them, he thought.
The idea felt ridiculous.
He didn't do friendships with women. He barely made friendship with men—Adrian was an exception, not a model.
Still—
He would try.
Or at least pretend to.
And somehow, the thought followed him into sleep, unwelcome and persistent, like a challenge he hadn't meant to accept—but already had.
A Week Later — A week had passed since the bar.
Seven days of meetings, revised drafts, restrained chaos—and Axel Maximilian drifting through their orbit like a problem no one had officially named.
Mornings at Halesia Tower always followed the same rhythm.
The building rose along Park Avenue in clean glass and pale stone, all vertical confidence and understated power. The lobby smelled faintly of polished marble and expensive coffee, the kind brewed not for enjoyment but efficiency. Executives crossed paths without slowing. Assistants moved fast, precisely, indispensably.
Catherine moved through it all with practiced ease.
Tablet tucked against her arm, schedule already sorted in her head, she walked beside Celine, who was half-scrolling through emails and half-commenting on them aloud, energy bouncing where Catherine's stayed grounded.
Nothing about the morning suggested disruption.
Until something shifted at the edge of Catherine's awareness.
Movement.
She didn't look immediately—she rarely did—but instinct sharpened just enough for recognition to settle.
Maximilian.
Walking toward them.
Alone.
No interns orbiting him. No laughter trailing in his wake. No deliberate pause meant to draw attention. He wasn't performing for the room—wasn't even trying to be seen.
He was just... walking.
Celine noticed first.
She nudged Catherine with her elbow. "Okay," she murmured. "That's unsettling."
Catherine finally glanced up.
Maximilian looked different. Not in appearance—his suit was still perfectly tailored, his posture still confident—but in intent. Contained. Focused. Almost restrained.
Celine leaned closer. "Why does he look like a real person today?"
Catherine waited for the inevitable.
The wink.
The smile.
The comment was designed to provoke.
Instead—
"Morning," Max said evenly as he passed them.
No smirk.
No flirtation.
No lingering gaze.
Just the word.
He didn't slow. Didn't turn back. Didn't acknowledge the shift he'd just created. He continued down the corridor and disappeared into one of the glass-walled conference rooms, already opening his laptop as he belonged there quietly.
Celine stopped walking.
Catherine did too—just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
"...Is he sick?" Celine whispered.
Catherine's brow lifted slightly. "Unclear."
"No," Celine decided firmly. "This is worse. Something happened."
They resumed walking, but Catherine's focus slipped—not dramatically, not consciously. Just enough for the moment to linger.
Maximilian.
Quiet.
Intentional.
A week ago, he would've found a reason to stand too close. To comment on her expression. To tease Celine into laughter.
Now he'd passed them like they were... colleagues.
It unsettled her more than his usual behavior ever had.
And she didn't yet know why.
Meanwhile.. Max, Pretending Nothing Happened—
Maximilian had never needed discipline to be noticed.
Attention came easily—too easily. It had always been a matter of choosing where to stand, when to smile, how long to let his gaze linger. The world responded to him like a reflex.
So the first day he decided not to do those things, it felt like holding his breath.
He stopped leaning into conversations.
Stopped commenting on appearances.
Stopped using charm as punctuation.
On Monday, he moved through meetings with a precision that surprised even him. He arrived early. Spoke only when necessary. Let silence sit instead of filling it with charisma.
No winks.
No teasing.
No calculated ease.
The change wasn't dramatic. It was surgical.
And it exhausted him.
By Tuesday, he noticed the absence before anyone else did. The way rooms no longer tilted toward him. The way people finished speaking without waiting for his reaction. The way his presence felt... normal.
He told himself that was the point.
By Wednesday, he caught himself glancing toward the assistants' section of the floor—toward two familiar desks—then forcing his eyes away like the thought itself was a mistake.
He did not approach.
He did not invent reasons to pass by.
He counted coffee breaks. Counted minutes. Counted how long it took before his instincts stopped itching beneath his skin.
They didn't.
By Thursday, Adrian noticed.
"You're quiet," his friend said over lunch, suspicion laced through the casual tone. "Like... intentionally quiet."
"I'm working," Max replied.
"You always work."
Max didn't answer.
Because this wasn't about productivity. It was about control.
About proving—to himself more than anyone—that he wasn't predictable. That he wasn't the man Catherine had dismissed with a single sentence and no emotion.
I'm just not into you.
The words hadn't bruised his ego.
They'd challenged it.
By Thursday, he understood something uncomfortable.
Restraint wasn't invisibility.
It was an effort.
Effort to remain neutral when he wanted to provoke.
Effort to walk past without looking.
Effort to hear Celine's laughter drift across the floor and not follow it.
And effort—real effort—to treat Catherine like she hadn't undone him with indifference.
He kept his distance because proximity made him want to test her again.
To see if she'd blink.
To see if she'd still look at him like he was optional.
By the end of the week, his plan was simple.
He would try something new.
Not charm.
Not pursuit.
Not conquest.
He would be... normal.
Friendly.
He exhaled slowly, standing outside the conference room on Friday afternoon, steadying himself before stepping back into their orbit.
He could feel the girls' eyes on him from the hall.
He didn't look up.
Didn't flirt.
Didn't comment on Catherine's hairstyle or Celine's earrings—things he normally would've used as an excuse to start a conversation.
He was trying.
Desperately trying.
Trying to be... friendly.
Trying not to be obvious about it.
Trying not to look like an idiot.
Adrian's voice echoed in his head: "Maybe start small. Like, don't flirt at them for five minutes."
So that's exactly what he was doing.
He kept his gaze on the spreadsheet and gripped his pen a little too tight. Max adjusted his cuff, squared his shoulders, and walked out—
Already aware that this was the hardest game he'd ever played.
Just act normal. Make conversation later. Don't screw it up.
Catherine & Celine — Watching Him Unravel
Back at their desks, Celine rolled her chair closer, leaning toward Catherine like she was sharing classified information.
"He's broken," she whispered.
Catherine's eyes flicked toward the conference room. "He's... quiet."
"Which is deeply suspicious."
"Extremely."
Catherine turned back to her screen, but the numbers blurred in a way they rarely did. Her attention drifted despite herself—toward the glass wall, toward the stillness where there should've been swagger.
Max.
Contained.
Muted.
It unsettled her more than his flirting ever had.
Why now?
Why pretend nothing had happened last night?
Why act like he had boundaries?
Why—
Celine nudged her again. "Don't spiral. He'll revert to chaos in about an hour."
Catherine nodded, though doubt lingered.
Something was different.
And she couldn't decide whether she disliked it—
—or whether it made her faintly nervous.
Celine rolled her chair toward Catherine's desk, bumping it like a child demanding attention.
"Cat," she whispered dramatically.
"No," Catherine replied instantly.
"You don't even know what I'm asking!"
Catherine sighed. "What?"
Celine grinned. "My Tinder girl wants to meet tonight."
Catherine blinked. "...Okay?"
"And she wants you to come too."
Catherine stared at her. "This again?"
"She thinks we're inseparable," Celine shrugged. "Plus, she wants to meet the pretty friend."
"I don't like this already."
"You'll survive," Celine winked. "One drink, that's all. For my emotional safety."
Catherine pressed her lips together. She hated saying yes.
But she hated letting Celine down more.
"...Fine."
Celine clapped quietly. "Best friend privilege unlocked."
Max inhaled once—sharp, grounding.
Just say hi. Be normal. Don't flirt. Don't embarrass yourself.
He approached their desks.
"Hey," he said.
Both women looked up, surprised.
Celine blinked. "Are you... speaking to us like a functional adult?"
"Trying something new," Max replied, forcing a smile.
Catherine narrowed her eyes. "Which is?"
"Being—friendly."
Celine gasped. "Oh my god. Has hell frozen over?"
"I'm capable of normal human behavior," Max said defensively.
"We'll see," Celine laughed.
He cleared his throat. "So... how's your day?"
"Oh, fantastic," Celine said brightly. "I'm meeting someone from Tinder tonight. A girl."
Max froze.
"And Cath's coming with me."
"...Together," he repeated slowly.
"Yep. Girls' night," Celine winked. "Don't overthink it."
Catherine covered her mouth, hiding a smile.
"Oh," Celine added casually, folding her arms. "We saw you last night."
Max swallowed. "Where?"
"Bar on Fifth."
"With a girl," Celine continued sweetly.
Catherine went still—for half a second.
"Didn't look like it ended well," Celine said. "She stormed off."
Max's ears burned. "Nothing happened."
"Not in the mood?" Celine teased.
Max sputtered.
Catherine snorted.
He turned red.
He'd conquered rooms.
Owned attention.
Commanded desire.
But here—
Here, he was being dismantled piece by piece.
And for the first time in his life—
He didn't want to leave.
He kinda likes it.