If chaos had a scent, it would smell like vanilla latte, rain-soaked pavement, and the distinct, metallic tang of impending doom.
Lila Santos was currently wearing all three.
"I am not late," Lila said into her phone, her voice breathless as she navigated the sidewalk like a soldier dodging landmines. "I am simply operating on a delayed timeline that emphasizes dramatic entrances."
"You're twenty minutes late, Li," Chloe's voice crackled through the speaker, dry as day-old toast. "And the client is already in the conference room. He looks like he eats sunshine for breakfast and spits out thunder. You need to get here, like, yesterday."
Lila side-stepped a puddle the size of a small lake, clutching her portfolio case to her chest like a shield. "I'm at the building! I'm entering the lobby! I am practically sitting in the chair next to you!"
"Liar. I can hear the traffic."
"That's just... ambiance."
Lila hung up, shoving her phone into the pocket of her trench coat. It was a miserable Tuesday morning in the city. The sky was a bruised shade of grey, weeping a steady drizzle that rendered umbrellas useless and turned hair into frizz-balls of regret. Lila caught her reflection in the glass doors of the towering Centurion Plaza building. She looked like a drowned rat, if the rat had attempted to wear high-fashion boots and a shade of lipstick called 'Rebel Red.'
She pushed through the revolving doors, the blast of icy air-conditioning hitting her wet skin. The lobby was a cavernous expanse of marble and glass, echoing with the clip-clop of expensive shoes and the low hum of corporate ambition.
Lila didn't have time for ambition. She just needed an elevator.
She scanned the bank of elevators. A crowd had formed—the morning rush hour bottleneck. It was a sea of black suits, grey blazers, and faces that hadn't smiled since 2014. Lila took a deep breath, adjusted her grip on her massive portfolio case, and dove in.
"Excuse me, pardon me, sorry—oops, nice shoes, sorry!"
She weaved through the bodies, eyes locked on the prize: Elevator 4. The doors were sliding shut.
"Hold it!" she yelled, perhaps a little too loudly for polite society.
A hand shot out. A masculine, manicured, annoyed hand in a pristine navy suit cuff. It stopped the door from closing with a jerky motion.
Lila didn't hesitate. She threw herself into the gap, stumbling into the elevator just as the doors bounced back. Her momentum, however, was a little more than she calculated. She tripped over her own feet—specifically, the three-inch heel of her left boot—and pitched forward.
She didn't hit the floor.
Instead, she slammed chest-first into a wall of solid, warm, expensive-smelling human.
"Oof!"
The sound escaped her lips as her face buried itself into a crisp white dress shirt. She smelled sandalwood, distinct laundry detergent, and the faint, bitter aroma of black coffee.
For a second, the elevator was dead silent.
Lila pulled back, her hands instinctively clutching the stranger's biceps to steady herself. They were very firm biceps. The kind of biceps that suggested this man didn't just push pencils; he probably crushed them for stress relief.
She looked up. And up.
The man she had just assaulted was tall. Annoyingly tall. He had a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, dark hair swept back in a way that defied the humidity outside, and eyes the color of dark chocolate—if chocolate could look at you with utter unimpressed disdain.
He looked down at her, one eyebrow arched perfectly. He wasn't shoving her away, but his body language screamed unauthorized access.
"Are we quite finished?" he asked. His voice was deep, smooth, and dripping with a sarcasm so rich it could be bottled and sold.
Lila blinked, realizing she was still clutching his arms. She released him as if he were on fire, taking a frantic step back. Unfortunately, the elevator was packed. Her step back just wedged her against a woman holding a wet umbrella.
"Right. Yes. Finished," Lila said, smoothing down her trench coat and flashing him her best I-meant-to-do-that smile. "Thanks for the catch. You have excellent reflexes. Do you play sports? Or just dodge lawsuits for a living?"
The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, more like a muscle spasm of irritation. "I was trying to prevent a homicide investigation in the lobby. It complicates my schedule."
"Considerate of you," Lila quipped, shifting her heavy portfolio so it wasn't digging into his ribs. "I'm Lila, by the way. And you are?"
"Regretting holding the door," he deadpanned.
Lila let out a short, startled laugh. It echoed a little too loudly in the stuffy metal box. The other occupants of the elevator—mostly tired salarymen staring at their phones—didn't even look up. But this guy, this towering pillar of grumpiness, was staring right at her.
"Ouch," Lila said, feigning injury. "Honesty. I like it. Keeps things spicy."
"I prefer things quiet," he countered, reaching past her to hit the button for the 30th floor.
Lila's eyes widened. "30th? No way. That's where I'm going. Are you stalking me?"
He looked at her, his gaze dragging from her damp, frizzy hair down to her mud-splattered boots. "If I were stalking someone, I'd aim for a target with better spatial awareness."
"Wow," Lila breathed out, genuinely impressed by the speed of the insult. "You're really good at that. Is there a class for being effortlessly rude, or is it a natural talent?"
"It's a survival mechanism," he muttered, turning his gaze toward the digital floor numbers counting up.
Lila studied his profile. He was handsome, objectively speaking. Subjectively, he looked like he needed a hug, or a shot of tequila, or maybe just to be shaken until that stick fell out of his... well.
The elevator lurched at the 15th floor. The doors opened, and half the people shuffled out. This gave Lila a little more breathing room, but for some reason, she didn't move away from Mr. Tall, Dark, and Sarcastic. There was a magnetic pull to his grouchiness that she found weirdly entertaining.
"So," she started again, because silence was her enemy. "30th floor. That's the Bagona & Associates floor, right? Or the creative agency, Spark?"
He didn't look at her. "Bagona."
"Ah," Lila nodded wisely. "The suits. The number crunchers. The fun-police."
That got him to look. He turned his head slowly. "The people who keep the lights on so the 'creatives' can play with crayons."
Lila gasped dramatically, hand to her chest. "Crayons? Excuse me, I work in Visual Strategy. We use markers. Expensive ones. And for your information, without us, you guys would just be selling boring spreadsheets to other boring people with spreadsheets."
"I like spreadsheets," he said simply. "They make sense. Unlike people who sprint into elevators and assault strangers."
"It wasn't assault! It was a... dynamic entry."
"It was a liability."
The elevator pinged at the 30th floor.
"Well, Mr. Liability," Lila said, hoisting her portfolio case up. "It's been a pleasure annoying you. I hope your spreadsheets are extra grid-like today."
She moved to step out, but as she did, a sharp tug jerked her backward.
"Whoa!" She stumbled, nearly falling again.
The man sighed—a long, suffering sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. "Stop moving."
"Why? What did you do?" Lila tried to pull forward, but she was tethered.
"You," he said, looking down at his chest, "have snagged me."
Lila looked down. Sure enough, the metal clasp of her portfolio case had somehow hooked itself onto the delicate, thread-thin button loop of his expensive jacket. They were literally attached at the hip. Or rather, at the chest and bag.
"Oh," Lila whispered. "That's... intimate."
"It's unfortunate," he corrected. He began picking at the metal clasp with long, dexterous fingers.
Lila watched him work. He smelled really good. Up close, she could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, suggesting he wasn't quite as perfectly polished as he pretended to be.
"You know," she whispered conspiratorially, "this is how rom-coms start."
His hands paused. He looked her dead in the eye. "This is how horror movies start. The victim gets trapped."
"I'm not the victim here! I'm the delightful chaos agent."
"Hold still," he ordered, his voice dropping an octave.
Lila held her breath. His knuckles brushed against her hand as he worked the clasp. For a split second, the air between them felt charged—static electricity from the storm, maybe. Or maybe it was just the sheer absurdity of being tethered to the most attractive, most annoyed man she'd ever met.
With a final click, the clasp came free.
"Freedom," he declared, stepping back and smoothing his jacket. He checked the fabric for damage with the scrutiny of a jeweler inspecting a diamond.
"You're welcome," Lila grinned, backing out of the elevator before the doors could attempt to eat her again.
"For what?" he asked, stepping out after her, though he kept a safe distance.
"For the memorable morning. Admit it, your day was looking pretty grey until I crashed into it."
He stared at her for a long beat. His expression was unreadable, masked behind that wall of professional indifference. But then, just for a second, something flickered in his eyes. Amusement? exasperation?
"Go play with your markers," he said, turning sharply toward the double glass doors of Bagona & Associates.
"Go hug a calculator!" Lila yelled after him.
She watched him walk away. He had a great walk—confident, purposeful, long strides. He didn't look back.
Lila grinned, turning toward the opposite glass doors marked Spark Creative Agency.
"Lila!"
Chloe was standing at the reception desk, holding a clipboard like a weapon. "You are thirty minutes late. Why are you smiling? You look like you rolled in a puddle."
"I met a guy," Lila announced, dropping her heavy case onto the reception sofa.
Chloe rolled her eyes. "Of course you did. Was he cute?"
"He was awful," Lila beamed, shaking the rain out of her hair. "Grumpy, uptight, and probably hates puppies. I think I'm in love."
Rockie Boy Bagona walked into his office, closed the door, and leaned his forehead against the cool wood for three seconds.
One, two, three.
He exhaled, pushed off the door, and walked to his desk. His office was a sanctuary of minimalism. Everything had a place. The pens were aligned. The books were color-coded (by shade of binding, strictly professional). The view of the city was grey and orderly.
"You look like you've been assaulted by a tornado," a voice drawled from the leather armchair in the corner.
Rockie didn't jump. He was used to Jap Morales breaking into his office. Jap was his best friend, his VP of Operations, and the only person allowed to witness Rockie's slow descent into madness.
"Elevator incident," Rockie muttered, taking off his jacket and inspecting the button loop again. It was frayed. He felt a disproportionate amount of annoyance at that tiny thread.
"Elevator incident?" Jap perked up, spinning a fidget spinner he'd stolen from an intern. "Did the lift break? Did you have to eat someone to survive?"
"Worse. A woman."
Jap gasped. "A woman? In an elevator? Scandalous."
"She was..." Rockie searched for the word, sitting down and booting up his computer. "Loud. Wet. Clumsy. She fell on me."
"On you? Like, on you?" Jap wiggled his eyebrows.
"She tripped. She slammed into me. Then her bag got stuck to my jacket. She talked the entire time. She breathed chaos, Jap. She actually told me I looked like I needed to hug a calculator."
Jap burst out laughing, a loud, barking sound that grated on Rockie's nerves. "She's not wrong, Rockie. You caress those Excel sheets with more tenderness than you've ever shown a human woman."
"I value efficiency," Rockie defended, opening his email. "She was the opposite of efficient. She was... entropy in a trench coat."
"Did you get her name?"
Rockie paused. His fingers hovered over the keyboard. He could still smell the rain on her. It was a distinctive scent—not the gross, city rain smell, but something fresher. Like ozone and vanilla. And her eyes... they were bright. Too bright for 8:00 AM on a Tuesday.
"Lila," he said quietly.
"Lila," Jap repeated, testing the name. "Sounds flowery. I bet she's a creative."
"She works at Spark across the hall. Visual Strategy."
"Oh, boy," Jap chuckled. "The enemy."
Rockie rolled his eyes. "They aren't the enemy, Jap. They are a vendor we unfortunately have to share a floor with."
"Same thing. So, are you going to see her again?"
"God, I hope not," Rockie lied. He didn't know why he lied. It was the logical answer, but his brain was currently replaying the way she had looked at him—fearless, teasing, completely unintimidated by his 'don't talk to me' face. Most people saw Rockie's resting scowl and ran for the hills. She had leaned in.
"Well, bad news, buddy," Jap said, tossing the fidget spinner onto the desk. "You know the rebranding project? The one the board has been breathing down our necks about?"
Rockie stiffened. "Yes. I'm handling the logistics."
"Right. Well, the Old Man decided we need 'fresh energy.' He hired Spark to handle the creative direction. We have a kickoff meeting in ten minutes."
Rockie froze. He slowly turned his swivel chair to face Jap.
"Tell me you're joking."
"Nope," Jap popped the 'p'. "And guess who the lead visual strategist is for Spark? I just saw the email."
Rockie closed his eyes. He could feel a headache forming right behind his temples.
"Lila," Rockie whispered.
"Bingo," Jap grinned. "Grab your calculator, Rockie. It's gonna be a long meeting."
Lila was trying to dry her shirt with the hand dryer in the ladies' room when Chloe burst in.
"Put your shirt back on! We have to go!"
"I look like a swamp creature!" Lila wailed, holding up her blouse. It had a massive wet spot right in the center.
"Put your blazer over it. Button it up. Nobody will know," Chloe ordered, throwing Lila's blazer at her face. "The Bagona team is already in the boardroom. This is a huge contract, Li. If we nail this rebranding, we get the yearly retainer. That's a bonus. That's shoes. That's rent."
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," Lila buttoned her blazer all the way to the top. It felt suffocating, but it looked professional. She fluffed her hair, which had dried into semi-acceptable beach waves rather than a bird's nest.
"Who are we meeting again?" Lila asked, rushing after Chloe down the hallway.
"The VP of Operations, Jasper Morales—he's cool, I've met him once. And the Director of Strategic Planning. He's the decision-maker. Rumor has it he's a total robot."
"I'm great with robots," Lila said confidently. "I'll just reboot him with my charm."
They reached the glass-walled conference room connecting the two offices. It was neutral ground. A long mahogany table, expensive ergonomic chairs, and a view of the city skyline.
Three men were already sitting there.
One was shaking his leg nervously—Noah, from her own team. He looked like he was about to throw up.
The second was a guy with a friendly face and a loud tie—that must be Jasper.
And the third...
The third man was standing by the window, his back to them, looking out at the rain. The cut of the navy suit was familiar. The broad shoulders were familiar.
Lila froze in the doorway.
"Gentlemen," Chloe announced, stepping in with her terrifyingly efficient smile. "Sorry to keep you waiting. This is our Lead Strategist, Lila Santos."
The man at the window turned around.
Time didn't stop, but it definitely stumbled.
Rockie Boy Bagona stood there, holding a file folder. His expression didn't change, but his eyes locked onto hers with the intensity of a sniper. He slowly lowered his gaze to her buttoned-up blazer, then back to her face.
"We've met," Rockie said, his voice cool and even.
Chloe looked between them. "You have?"
"Briefly," Lila squeaked. She cleared her throat, forcing her shoulders back. She was a professional. She was a creative genius. She was not going to let Mr. Elevator intimidate her. "We, uh, shared a ride up."
"I see," Jap grinned, looking between Rockie and Lila. "The entropy in a trench coat?"
"Excuse me?" Lila blinked.
"Nothing," Rockie cut in sharply, shooting Jap a look that promised violence later. He gestured to the empty chair directly across from him. "Please, sit down, Ms. Santos. We have a lot to discuss."
Lila walked to the chair. Every click of her heels sounded like a countdown. She sat down, placed her portfolio on the table, and opened it.
"So," she said, flashing a dazzling smile that she hoped hid her utter panic. "Let's talk about making Bagona & Associates less... boring."
Rockie leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He interlaced his fingers. "I'm listening. But I should warn you—I'm very fond of boring."
"We'll see about that," Lila challenged, uncapping a marker with a loud pop.
The air in the room shifted. It wasn't just tension anymore. It was war.
But looking at the slight, barely-there smirk playing on Rockie's lips, Lila had a feeling this was going to be the most fun war she'd ever fought.
Trouble had officially arrived. And for the first time all morning, Rockie Boy Bagona didn't look like he wanted to escape it.