Chapter 1
The rain pattered against the window of Luna Reed’s small design studio, but the sound did little to drown out the anxiety in her chest. At 25, she’d spent two years pouring her heart into “Reed & Co.“—a tiny space she shared with three other designers—but today, the studio’s future hung by a thread.
“Luna, it’s now or never,” her boss, Mr. Carter, said, shoving a manila folder into her hands. “The Thorne Tech project is our last chance. If we don’t get this draft to Eliot Thorne himself in 45 minutes, we’re done.”
Thorne Tech. The name alone made Luna’s hands sweat. It was the fastest-growing AI and media company in the city, led by Eliot Thorne—the 30-year-old CEO known for his icy demeanor and zero tolerance for mistakes. She’d seen his photo in business magazines: sharp jawline, stormy gray eyes, and a suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent.
“I’ll get it there,” she said, grabbing her umbrella and sprinting out the door. The subway was delayed, so she hailed a taxi, clutching the folder like it was a lifeline. When she finally reached Thorne Tech’s glass skyscraper, she rushed through the lobby, nearly tripping over her own feet.
That’s when it happened.
She turned a corner, and suddenly, a warm liquid spilled across her front—followed by a low, furious voice. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Luna froze. In front of her stood a man in a tailored black suit, his white dress shirt stained with coffee. The scent of expensive cologne mixed with the bitter aroma of the drink, and when he lifted his head, she recognized him instantly: Eliot Thorne. His gray eyes were narrowed, and his jaw was set so tight she could see the muscle twitch.
“I—I’m so sorry!” she stammered, fumbling with her bag for napkins. “I was in a hurry, and I didn’t see you—”
“Clearly,” he said, cutting her off. He glanced at the coffee spreading across his suit, then back at her. “Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?”
Luna’s face burned. “I’ll pay for the dry cleaning. Whatever it takes—”
“$10,000,” he said flatly.
Her mouth dropped open. “$10,000? I can’t—”
He raised an eyebrow. “Then you’ll work it off.”
Before she could protest, he turned to the man beside him—Marcus, his assistant, who looked like he was trying not to laugh—and said, “Marcus, set up a workstation for Ms.…?”
“Reed. Luna Reed”
