---
Title: Bitter Like Black Coffee
There were three things Amelia Rae swore she'd never do in her life: cry at work, fall for a man in a suit, and drink decaf.
By 9:03 a.m. on a rainy Tuesday morning, she'd already broken two of those.
Her makeup was smudged from the wind and the tears she swore weren't tears (just allergies, thank you very much), and her venti cup from the coffee shop downstairs had the dreaded green sticker of death: DECAF.
"I asked for triple shot," she muttered, staring at the betrayal in a cup as she stepped into the elevator. "Is this some kind of sick joke?"
"Maybe the universe's way of telling you to calm down."
Amelia froze. The voice behind her was low, smooth, and unmistakably smug.
No. Nope. Not him.
She turned her head slowly, already feeling her jaw tighten. And there he was: tall, tailored, and terrible.
Dante Ashford. CEO of Ashford & Co. Media, her boss—and if you asked her, possibly the devil himself in Tom Ford.
"Mr. Ashford," she said through a thin-lipped smile, stepping aside in the elevator so he could enter. "Good morning."
"It was," he replied, his eyes scanning her—taking in the damp coat, the crooked lipstick, the half-dead look in her eyes. His gaze finally settled on the cup in her hand. "That better not be for me."
"No, sir. This is my own mistake." She gestured with the cup like it was a failed science experiment. "Yours is in your office. Real espresso, five shots, one sugar, stirred counterclockwise like a witch's potion."
He raised a brow. "You're learning."
"I'm adapting. There's a difference."
Dante didn't reply. He just stepped into the elevator, and the doors slid closed behind him with a soft ding.
Silence.
Amelia stared straight ahead, pretending she didn't notice how good he smelled. It wasn't fair—how someone that cold could smell like cedarwood and something expensive.
The elevator hummed upward. She could feel the tension between them like static, humming just beneath her skin. Her heart was racing, and not because she was nervous. No—just angry. Frustrated. Exhausted.
Right?
"You're five minutes late," he said, not looking at her.
"I was actually—"
"Save the excuse. Next time, aim for being early. You're my assistant, not a college intern trying to make it by on caffeine and poor time management."
Amelia clenched her jaw. "Noted."
The elevator dinged again—21st floor. As the doors opened, he stepped out first. She followed, resisting the urge to throw her sad little coffee at the back of his perfect stupid head.
---
Her desk was right outside his office, and it still amazed her how someone could make glass walls feel like a prison. He'd designed the space himself—clean lines, cold gray tones, minimalist art that looked expensive and said absolutely nothing.
It suited him. Precise. Untouchable. Icy.
She'd been working under him for three months, and not once had she seen him crack a genuine smile. Not when the company landed a million-dollar campaign. Not when she stayed until 11 p.m. fixing a deck for him. Not even when she brought him his preferred breakfast—plain croissant, black coffee, and silence.
"You'll be sitting in on the pitch meeting with Holbrook this afternoon," he said, standing in his office doorway. "I want you to take notes. Don't interrupt. Don't speak unless you're spoken to."
She opened her planner. "Do I have time to—?"
"No."
God, she hated him.
"Yes, Mr. Ashford," she said sweetly. "Would you also like me to breathe only when given permission, or is that still allowed?"
He gave her a sharp look. "Careful, Amelia."
She turned back to her screen and smiled. "Always."
---
The pitch meeting was a bloodbath.
Holbrook & Partners were the kind of clients who liked to talk over everyone and act like they'd invented the color blue. Amelia watched as Dante leaned back in his chair, cool and unbothered while they blustered and bragged, occasionally interjecting with surgical precision that left the room silent.
It was infuriating. And kind of impressive. But mostly infuriating.
"Amelia," he said suddenly, turning to her as if reading her mind. "Would you summarize the key flaw in their proposed media schedule?"
She blinked.
He never asked her to speak in meetings.
All eyes turned to her. Her heart jumped into her throat, but she cleared it, lifted her notes, and spoke.
"They've stacked their launch too heavily in week one," she said evenly. "If the engagement doesn't spike immediately, the whole budget burns out before it has a chance to adapt. A longer ramp would let the metrics guide adjustments."
A long pause.
One of the Holbrook execs frowned. "That's—"
"She's right," Dante interrupted smoothly. "Adjust the schedule. We'll talk again in two weeks."
Dismissed.
Back in the elevator, Amelia didn't say a word. But inside, she was shaking. Not from nerves—something else. Like she'd just seen the edge of something she didn't expect.
Dante stood beside her, arms folded, watching the numbers tick down. Finally, he said:
"You could have said nothing."
She glanced at him. "You asked me to speak."
"I wanted to see if you'd flinch."
Amelia turned to him, her voice low. "I don't flinch."
His lips curved slightly—barely there, gone in a blink. "No," he said. "You don't."