ONE WRONG LATTE
Lila Monroe had exactly seven minutes to sprint across campus, change into her café uniform, and pretend like her life wasn’t held together by duct tape, caffeine, and pure spite. The last thing she needed was to be late—again. Her manager had already threatened to cut her hours, and she needed every damn second of this job to survive.
She shoved open the door of Brew + Bloom, the upscale coffee shop nestled between luxury boutiques and tech startups. The scent of roasted espresso, rich vanilla, and burnt dreams hit her all at once.
“Cutting it close again, Monroe,” her co-worker Callie muttered from behind the espresso machine.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m a vision of punctuality,” Lila huffed, tying on her apron with one hand while tucking her wild curls under a headband with the other.
She ducked behind the counter just in time to hear the door chime.
And then she saw him.
Tall. Impossibly tall. Dressed in a tailored black suit that probably cost more than her entire semester's tuition. Black hair swept back like he owned time itself. Cold, steel-gray eyes that scanned the room like a threat. His presence sucked the air out of the café.
The kind of man who never waited in line. The kind who got what he wanted, always.
Asshole. Lila didn’t know him, but she knew his type. Rich. Entitled. Dangerous in a way that made girls lose their minds and morals.
He stepped forward without a glance at the menu.
“One oat milk latte. Extra hot. No sugar. No foam.”
His voice was smooth, low, and carried a warning: Don’t mess it up.
Lila blinked, then plastered on her best fake customer service smile. “Coming right up, Your Majesty.”
He looked at her, finally. Those gray eyes swept over her—slow, dismissive, and sharp. “Do I know you?”
“God, I hope not,” she muttered under her breath.
She turned and made the drink, resisting the urge to spit in it. Petty thoughts were all she had left some days. She slid it across the counter without another word.
He took one sip.
Then paused.
Then looked at her like she’d personally insulted his bloodline.
“This isn’t oat milk.”
Lila stared. “It’s literally labeled on the jug. That is oat milk.”
“It tastes wrong.”
“Well, maybe your mouth is just... broken.”
The air between them crackled. The guy's lip twitched—something between a smirk and a snarl.
“What’s your name?” he asked, coldly.
Lila crossed her arms. “Why? You planning to write me a bad Yelp review?”
He didn’t respond. Just turned and left without another word.
She rolled her eyes so hard her skull almost cracked. “Rich men and their fragile palates,” she muttered, moving on.
---
3 Days Later
“Monroe. You’re late,” barked the woman in the pencil skirt.
Lila adjusted the strap of her thrifted purse and tried not to let her nerves show. The internship interview had taken forever to land—out of over 800 applicants, she'd somehow made the top 10 for a coveted spot at WolfeTech, the luxury tech-fashion hybrid shaking up the industry.
And now she was running up the stairs of their glass high-rise like a peasant in a palace.
“I’m sorry. The elevator was—”
“No excuses. Follow me.”
They passed through sleek halls and floor-to-ceiling glass offices, where everyone looked like they walked out of a magazine.
“Wait here,” the woman snapped.
Lila smoothed her blouse and took a breath. She could do this. She had to.
The door opened.
“Mr. Black will see you now.”
Lila stepped inside the corner office.
Then froze.
Behind the glass desk, dressed in an even more expensive suit than before, sat him.
The Wrong Latte.
The Devil in Prada.
Damien. Freaking. Black.
His eyes met hers—and something unreadable flickered in his expression. A smirk slowly pulled at the edge of his lips.
“You.”
Lila blinked. “You?!”
Silence. Charged, heavy silence.
Damien leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “Didn’t expect you to follow me home. Stalker behavior doesn’t look good on interns.”
Her jaw dropped. “I didn’t follow you. I applied. Like a normal human. This is... this is just a sick coincidence.”
“Oh, it’s sick alright,” he said, his voice low and amused. “You insulted me. Gave me spoiled oat milk. Called me ‘Your Majesty.’”
“You were acting like a royal pain—”
“I should have you thrown out,” he interrupted. “But...”
He stood slowly, walking toward her.
“But I’m curious.”
Lila's breath caught.
“What makes a girl like you,” he continued, circling her like a wolf, “so eager to bite the hand that could feed her? Do you enjoy biting, Miss Monroe?”
Her cheeks burned. “I don’t care if you’re the Prince of Monaco. I’m not here to kiss your ass.”
“No,” he said softly, “but you might end up on your knees anyway.”
Silence.
Lila’s heart pounded. Her mouth opened, then closed. He was cocky, infuriating—and devastatingly hot. She hated him.
And for some stupid, reckless reason…
She wanted him.
